Never Give Up
by Zea T
Summary: Certain things should be unthinkable. Nothing truly is. With Shockwave involved, Prowl and the crew of the Ark are forced to confront the shadows that can lie in a mech's spark. Complete!
1. Chapter 1

Title: **Never Give Up**

'verse: G1

Rating: T/PG-13

Length: ~60k, 12 chapters

Characters: Jazz, Prowl, ensemble

Warnings: angst, cybertronian profanity, mild Prowl/Jazz, violence

Summary: _Certain things should be unthinkable. Nothing truly is. With Shockwave involved, Prowl and the crew of the Ark are forced to confront the shadows that can lie in a mech's spark._

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, based on the 1983 cartoon series "Transformers", produced and owned by Hasbro and its associated companies. Characters and situations are used without permission and with no profit accruing to the author.

Author's Note: I've been working on this on and off for a while - mostly in my angstier moments. Since I finally managed to bring it to something approximating a conclusion, I thought I'd post it. Comments, suggestions for improvement or critiques are welcome. Even a word or two of feedback (positive or negative) can be useful to me as a writer, and would be very welcome indeed. I hope you enjoy reading - even if I should probably be apologising for springing this chapter on you...

* * *

**Chapter 1**

"Yet again you fail me!"

Starscream was a battered heap at Megatron's feet. The Seeker had passed beyond the shrieking stage, reduced now to a pained whimper of protest. Shockwave's audials were truly grateful for that.

Watching, smirking behind his faceplate, the mech made no move to intervene. Soundwave mirrored him on the other side of their Lord's throne, his dimmed visor suggesting he wasn't even bothering to watch. Starscream had been more than usually rebellious of late, and punishment from Lord Megatron was thoroughly appropriate.

Up to a point.

Careful to mask the thought behind his usual barrage of white noise, Shockwave pondered his options. The battered red and white plating was a satisfying sight, but satisfaction was fleeting. Seeing Starscream offlined didn't fit in with his plans at present. Having the Seeker out of the way would be to his advantage, but the potential effects of Starscream's deactivation on the other Seekers were unpredictable. The continued effectiveness of one of the Earthbound jets in particular warranted careful consideration. Shockwave had worked too hard and long on this project to permit a key tool to be damaged now.

He stepped forward, and was aware at once of Soundwave's focussed attention. He ignored the pressure on his processor, confident in his precautions, and cleared his vocaliser with a cautious whirr.

"My Lord… if I might make a suggestion?"

Megatron's fusion cannon glowed hot. His optics didn't move from the trembling Seeker at its focus, and his voice was a dangerous growl.

"Shockwave?"

"It occurs to me, Lord Megatron, that Starscream's laboratory would be of a certain use in the endeavour we discussed on my arrival."

The red glow brightened, lighting the room, the fusion cannon humming a little louder.

"Then I will ensure it is vacated."

"Ah…" Shockwave hummed, tone non-committal. Megatron's glare didn't fade, but there was a sour expression on his face as he glanced at his lieutenant. This was a familiar routine: his punishment of Starscream interrupted, his officers or enemies or fate itself conspiring to rob him of the ultimate satisfaction. It was a while though since Shockwave had found himself the one saving his rival's thrusters. "My Lord, if I may… as long as my presence is required on this organic world, then perhaps Cybertron…?"

The fusion cannon's whine rose to a crescendo, Starscream cowered, and for a moment everyone present thought that this time the intervention had failed. Then Skywarp took a step forward, a strangled cry escaping him. Megatron's optics rose to the black-and-lavender Seeker, before swinging back to Shockwave, as if reminding himself of his lieutenant's proposal. Megatron's optics flickered, considering. The warlord's grey servos rose in a flourish of impotent rage.

"Get this pile of wreckage fixed and ship him to Cybertron."

"My Lord…" Starscream whispered, reaching out with a shaky hand.

Megatron knocked the hand aside. The large mech crouched beside his second-in-command, taking hold of one wing and giving a sharp twist.

"You will remain in Darkmount at all times." Putting a Seeker beneath Cyberton's skies, unable to take wing and spiral up into their dark expanse… Shockwave regarded his malevolent lord with frank admiration. Starscream whimpered, looking towards Skywarp and Thundercracker. His wingmates stepped forward instinctively, only to come to an abrupt halt as Megatron's gimlet gaze returned to them. "Starscream will travel alone. All other Seekers will remain here."

Megatron stood. Turning his back on the bewildered trine, he strode from the room without another word, Soundwave falling into step behind him. Shockwave waved briskly from Thundercracker towards his damaged trine-leader, before beckoning to their third.

"Skywarp, come with me."

He didn't let his satisfaction show in his voice, and his mono-opticed facemask hid it from view, but it was there nonetheless. The tool he needed was in his servo, the biggest potential distraction banished. Finally he had a chance to break the impasse on this organic world once and for all. Lord Megatron's attention would return to where it should have been all along: Cybertron.

That was a goal Shockwave could believe in. He would bring his lord and master home and return their homeworld to its true glory. And if the broken frames and sparks of Autobot pests paved the path to that goal… well, that was no more than an incidental pleasure.

* * *

Prowl shivered as Jazz ran a stealthy servo up the edge of one door-wing. The Praxian jumped, spinning away from Teletraan-1's monitoring station with a satisfying mixture of irritation and amusement.

Jazz sniggered, unrepentant in the face of his best friend's frown. The saboteur leaned back in a relaxed slouch against the terminal's chair, hands spread open in front of him. The command deck lights, dimmed to reflect the pre-dawn world outside, glinted off black and white plating and the grin that never failed to disarm.

"Hey, you land a mech on nightshift for an orn and he's gotta find his amusement where he can."

A frown warred against the barest hint of a smile on pale faceplates. The smile won. Prowl's door-wings rose, flaring for a moment before settling with something approaching a flutter.

"Must I remind you that such contact is not only presumptuous, but also wildly inappropriate for Autobot officers whilst on duty?"

Jazz's visor flickered in something that was almost a wink. He pushed out of the monitor chair and gave an elaborate stretch before leaning against one of the stalagmites that had grown through the floor during their long sleep. "Ah, but that's the thing, Prowler. You may be on duty, but as of, ah, oh point seven eight breems ago, I'm not."

Prowl's optics dimmed, the huff of air through his vents one of fond exasperation. "Given your obvious lack of stimulation – before now – I take it nothing of interest happened during the night?"

The question, despite the phrasing, was a necessary part of this routine. Jazz's casual shrug didn't disguise his serious answer. "Not a lot. Had a movement sensor go offline, coupla miles out. Might rattle Red Alert's circuits a bit, but I was watchin' half the night and there ain't been another short, or even a hint on the perimeters."

Prowl nodded. With the Ark's ten mile, five mile and three mile boundary rings intact, even their zealous security director would probably accept that missing a single square, a few hundred yards across, from the inner surveillance grid was not an imminent emergency. "I'll assign a repair crew…"

"Nah." Jazz produced a replacement sensor from his subspace with a flourish. "I'm headin' out to watch the sunrise before turnin' in for a joor, and that sensor's in as good a place as any. Won't take me more'n a minute or two to tackle two birds with one stone."

Wrapped in an organic metaphor or otherwise, it was a fair solution. Prowl nodded, settling into the monitor chair Jazz had abandoned.

"I will never understand your fondness for adopting human idiom."

"I know." Jazz grinned, subspacing the sensor and heading towards the door. "But that ain't gonna stop me tryin' to convert you." He paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Up for another round? We can fit a movie in when you get off shift an' before I go on?"

"I'm afraid I must ask you for a 'rain check'." The tactician pronounced the unfamiliar phrase with careful precision. "The disappearance of Starscream and current silence from the Decepticons is making Prime rather unsettled. He's asked for a tactical projection and infiltration strategy, ready for deployment against the Nemesis."

"So you gotta pull a double?" Jazz grimaced sympathetically. A hint of a frown showed on the Special Ops mech's face, as barely-there as Prowl's smile had been a few minutes before. "'Kay. I'll give the Nemesis thing some thought too."

"Jazz, I'm sorry..."

The other officer's low chuckle filled the room. "No probs, mech. A 'bot's gotta do what a 'bot's gotta do." He shook his helm and turned away, raising a hand in farewell. "Maybe tomorrow. Don't work too hard, Prowler."

"Have a good day, Jazz." Prowl was already leaning over the keyboard, running the morning checks. He paused long enough to glance over his shoulder, only to realise the Ark's bridge was already empty. Unconcerned, he went back to the terminal, completing his routine without another thought. As Jazz said, there was always tomorrow.

* * *

"Ah… Shockwave?"

Skywarp's whining voice was an irritation, a distraction Shockwave could well do without. He didn't so much as hesitate as he strode past the Seeker, leaving Megatron's audience room behind and stalking through the dank corridors. He tuned the Seeker out with the ease of many vorns' experience commanding the high strung frame-type. There was no good reason for Skywarp to have waited outside the audience chamber, or for Shockwave to acknowledge him. His participation in this exercise was necessary, rather than welcome.

"_Shock-waaaave!_ It's now. TC says he's there already. We have to go _now_."

The whine penetrated despite Shockwave's efforts, and the gun-former's vents stilled. Now? He'd expected Thundercracker to contact him directly, but – he realised with an all too familiar feeling of frustration – that had been before his lord and master summoned him to voice his displeasure about the incompetence of the Decepticons, cassettes, Seekers in general and Starscream in particular.

Shockwave's loyalty never wavered. If Lord Megatron wished to vocalise his analysis, then his Cybertronian lieutenant wouldn't dream of questioning that decision, but he had to admit the timing was problematic. With his firewalls banked against Soundwave's probing and his com-link deactivated out of respect for Megatron, Thundercracker could have been trying to get his attention for breems or even joors without success.

His irritation with the second Seeker dogging his heels faded, and he merely nodded, feeling a certain satisfaction that the two had accepted his command. Informed self-interest was always a powerful motivator. Without Starscream to stand as a barrier between them and Megatron, Thundercracker and Skywarp were vulnerable. The pair remained somewhat safe only so long as Shockwave deemed them useful.

How long that would remain the case was an open question. Thundercracker's main task in Shockwave's strategem was the one he'd just completed. The only reason Shockwave had involved the blue-armoured flier at all was because Skywarp didn't have the patience for high-altitude surveillance.

"Ah… Shockwave? Sir?"

Shockwave cut off the Seeker with a single, raised hand. Signalling the lab door with his identity, he strode through and reached for the case on the workbench. He inspected its contents with a scan of his single, sharp optic. The power-pack pinged in response to his query, the housings were clean and awaiting their fragile cargo. Nodding once, he shut the case with an economic movement before subspacing it and stalking back to the lab door.

"Charge your null-rays."

A rising whine filled the air, Skywarp not questioning the instruction. He'd certainly been briefed often and carefully enough to appreciate the relevance of it. The Seeker forced power into his trine-leader's inventions, bringing them up to the brink of firing, eliminating the fraction of a klick of reaction time that would otherwise be required.

Venting hard, Shockwave took up a firing stance, his own weapon set for low power and wide-dispersal, and then turned his back to Skywarp. For once the idiot seemed to realise this wasn't the time for a quip. The black and lavender Seeker was thankfully brisk as he slipped an arm around Shockwave's waist.

"Be ready."

Skywarp huffed a vent in agreement – their target wasn't a mech to face unprepared – before beginning a sing-song countdown. "Three… two… one…"

The world changed around them. Skywarp's null-rays were already blanketing the area as trees faded into sight, and cool air - churned up by their sudden arrival - played across delicate wing sensors.

Seconds passed. Skywarp stilled his weapon.

Silence lingered.

Nothing moved, least of all the saboteur propped up against a rock outcrop and facing the garish pink-and-orange clouds that marked an imminent sunrise. The Autobot had to have been hit by several null-ray blasts within klicks, forced into deep stasis before he even registered their presence.

Excellent. So far, Shockwave's plan had been executed faultlessly. It was more than he'd calculated probable from the young Seeker he was reliant upon.

Nonetheless, Shockwave stood still and cautious, his own weapon trained, but resisting the urge to fire. Leaving evidence of his presence - either on Earth or in this carefully-selected clearing - wasn't part of his plan. Instead Shockwave squinted through the flat, pre-dawn light, searching the unpredictable Autobot for any sign of movement, before pulling away from Skywarp and striding across the small clearing.

Kneeling by the insensate mech, he pulled the case from his subspace. Laying it on the grass beside him, he flipped the catch before looking down at his frozen captive, every movement clinically precise, feeling no need to acknowledge that his complex strategem was underway without a hitch.

The same couldn't be said for his Seeker tool.

"It worked!" Skywarp's mouth fell open, his arm-rifle still raised as if he didn't quite believe it.

"Indeed."

Satisfied, Shockwave allowed himself just a moment of relaxation. One finger traced a delicate helm horn, almost caressing the mech's slack faceplates.

"And now, my dear Jazz, you're all mine."

* * *

It was mid-morning when Optimus Prime wandered onto the command deck of his downed spacecraft, greeting his second-in-command and in search of his third. Not that he was in any hurry. Jazz was off-duty after his night on the monitors. The invitation Prime held in his servos, for an Autobot representative to open a county fair, could almost certainly wait until the most likely volunteer came back on-shift. On the other hand, if the mech was around, there seemed little point in delaying a response. The real question was whether Optimus could track him down, one way or the other.

Given the disparity between human time scales and their own, it wasn't unusual for Autobots to skip recharge for two or more days – a bad habit Jazz heard about from Ratchet almost as often as Prowl. The difference was that while Prowl was often to be found in his office during those extra hours, Jazz would be using his to explore their new world, or liven discussions in the Rec Room.

Optimus had already checked the latter option. Now he contemplated the bright morning sun shining through the Ark's hatches, and wondered how quickly his tactical officer would see through his pretext if he drove out into that warm light to find Jazz rather than simply comming him.

"Teletraan-1, please locate Autobot Jazz."

"Autobot Jazz is not aboard the Ark." Teletraan's smooth response was pretty much what Prime expected. The frown that ghosted across Prowl's calm face wasn't. The Praxian smoothed his faceplates but the surprise remained in his half-raised door-wings. He leaned forward in his chair so he could see around Optimus Prime's bulk and scanned the screens above his head.

"Peculiar."

"Prowl?"

"I understood Jazz to say he intended to recharge this morning." Prowl tapped one of the smaller screens thoughtfully. "He left here en route to replace a faulty sensor, and observe the sunrise, before retiring." He paused, looking up at his commander. "It would appear the sensor is still faulty."

"And Jazz isn't back."

"It wouldn't be the first time his plans have changed at short notice," Prowl noted. Optimus nodded slowly. A sudden decision to explore further afield, or join another mech's endeavours, could explain Jazz's absence from his berth. Neither Optimus and Prowl could believe such a change of plan would permit the failure to patch a hole in the Ark's sensor grid first. They knew their friend and fellow officer too well for that.

"It wouldn't be first time he's fallen into recharge watching the sunrise either," the Prime offered in counter-suggestion.

Prowl hummed an uncertain agreement. "I did not suspect he was that tired."

"You're talking about Jazz? I could fetch him if you want him." That was Bluestreak, wandering through the bridge on his way out. "I'm running kinda early, and I'm sure Bumblebee and Spike won't mind if I'm a minute or two late anyway."

"Thank you. That won't be necessary," Prowl answered without hesitation.

Bluestreak's door-wings wavered for a moment in a relaxed shrug. The mech headed onwards towards the door, talking as he went. "Well, if you're sure. I guess I really ought to be going, after all, and I hope you get off duty sometime soon, Prowl, and you too, Prime. It's such a nice day that it seems a shame to be stuck inside."

"Indeed." Prime smiled behind his faceplate, his optics warm. "Thank you, Bluestreak. Enjoy your day"

Silence returned. Prime's tactician echoed the quiet sighed that escaped his vents. Jazz would not recharge well away from the shelter of the ship, lacking both the optimised electromagnetic fields surrounding his berth and the sense of security that came with them. Most likely he'd wake very nearly as short of energy as when he dozed off. On the other hand, as Prime and Prowl had learnt long before, sending an unprepared crewbot to rouse their Head of Special Ops was… unwise.

Jazz didn't react well to surprises. Prowl was generally safe waking his friend. Prime could do it too… if Jazz was sufficiently relaxed and confident in his own safety. Otherwise, the larger mech's bulk and height tended to trigger unpleasant connections in the Ops mech's half-awake processor.

If the saboteur was hiding his weariness from his closest friend… Optimus shook the thought away, wary of second guessing his third's mental state. It was always difficult to tell what might be hidden behind that carefree façade.

Prowl didn't give voice to his own similar thoughts, but they were written in his body language. The tactician watched until Bluestreak transformed at the Ark's outer hatch and took off at a leisurely pace, before speaking.

"Prime, perhaps I should go…"

"Prowl, you're relieved. I'll watch the monitors until you're back."

The Praxian nodded, his door-wings dipping in gratitude. "I will return soon," he promised. The implicit corollary – with their errant officer in his tyre tracks – went unsaid.

* * *

"_Ratchet!_"

Prime reacted to Prowl's call with a start of surprise and a wave of anxiety. It took him several klicks even to identify the call over the senior officers' encrypted com channel. He'd never heard a note like this in his logical tactician's voice: stricken, desperate, half-choked with emotion.

"Ratchet, please…" It was hard to tell whether it was Prowl's transmission that cut out intermittently, or his processor fighting whatever had strangled his vocal circuits. "Prime, I… you… _Jazz_…"

"Prowl, for Primus' sake, pull yourself together and report!" Ratchet snapped the order out before Prime could. The white-clad medic strode onto the Ark's command deck. Optimus spared him a glance, abandoned his attempts to localise the erratic signal and instead pulled up the coordinates of the broken sensor that started all this.

Ratchet grimaced when only silence met his demand. The medic's scowl couldn't hide his concern as his Prime fell into step beside him, both hurrying for the exit. "Tell me you know where our genius of a second is."

Prime gave a tight nod, sending a databurst to his chief medical officer and then a ping to Prowl's private com channel as he transformed. If there was an answer, he didn't hear it. "You think he's glitching?"

Ratchet stuck tight to Prime's rear quarter as both picked up speed. Sunlight glinted off his white armour and the red crosses he displayed. The ambulance's sirens remained silent for the moment, but Prime knew that would change at the slightest hint of an obstruction. Ratchet grunted noncommittally. "Maybe."

It was a possibility. An inbalance in Prowl's fine-tuned logic centre was rare, but dangerous, particularly if the mech was outside of the Ark's confines. In Prime's limited experience, the sudden silence could well indicate a glitch. Prowl's near-hysteria beforehand though…

Jazz. It wouldn't be the first time Jazz had triggered a logic failure in his friend, although it hadn't happened in a time span encompassing several of this planet's ice ages. Changing tack, Prime pinged his third-in-command's com-link rather than his second's, gently at first, and then with enough volume to rouse a mech from even the heaviest recharge.

Nothing.

Optimus Prime gave Ratchet the bare minimum of warning before transforming, pushing his way between trees and even toppling a young pine in his haste to clear the medic's path. Travelling a mere few miles from the Ark had never taken so long.

"This way, Prime." Ratchet gestured to their right, indicating a bush that had been pushed aside, perhaps far enough to allow a door-winged mech to pass. Optimus followed his chief medical officer onto the narrow path, ducking his head to avoid a hanging creeper that caught on Ratchet's broad grey chevron. The medic's scowl deepened.

"Red Alert can't just put these things somewhere easy to find?"

Despite his concern, Optimus smiled behind his battlemask.

"I believe not doing so is rather the point."

Ratchet huffed air through his vents. The white mech stretched slightly, stiff after twisting between trunks too broad even for Prime to shoulder aside.

"What were those coordinates again? Should be just through…"

Optimus Prime heard it a moment before Ratchet came to an abrupt stop. Prowl's high, anguished keening didn't pause, or even falter, as the Prime clattered loudly into his chief medical officer's solid form, or when Optimus pressed forward to see over Ratchet's helm. The tactician probably hadn't realised they were there. He knelt where his legs had given out, on the edge of the clearing. His face-plates were hidden in his servos, door-wings flat and limp against his back. Prowl's voice rose and fell in a steady wail, all thought drowned out by the sound of pure desolation.

Ratchet's cry of dismay provided a sharp counterpoint. Prime himself remained silent. He wasn't sure his vocaliser would respond any better than his shock-frozen limbs. No one and nothing moved until he nudged Ratchet gently aside and stepped into the centre of the clearing. Freshly-disturbed morning dew dripped from blue pedes as he stopped. Feeling numb from processor to spark, Optimus Prime stared down at the grey frame propped against a rock out-crop, at the blaster that had dropped from Jazz's limp finger-servos and the ragged hole it had torn, discharged point-blank into the mech's own chest-plates.

Dropping to his knees, Optimus Prime forced himself to confirm what Prowl's door-wings and Ratchet's medical sensors must have told them instantly.

"He's gone."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Prime! What in th' Pit is goin' on?" Ironhide waited outside the hatch of the Ark, a broad swathe of disturbed earth marking the limits of his restless pacing. The elder mech was armed, his expressive face creased in a worried frown. He crossed his arms as Optimus slowed, a silent Ratchet close on the truck's tailgate. "Ah've got Blaster on monitor duty, but ah can't get a peep out o' Prowl – or Jazz either fer that matter."

"Ironhide…" The last of his senior officers… his third in command now, although the mech couldn't know that. Prime shuddered, painfully aware of the cold frame in his trailer. Ratchet carried Prowl, the tactician needing the medic's care where their saboteur did not. "No… not here."

He braked to a halt despite his statement, watching Ironhide's frown deepen as Ratchet passed them without a word and Optimus himself failed to transform. The old soldier folded his arms across his bumper. His familiar drawl came over Prime's com, recognising the need for discretion even if not understanding it. "Where's Prowl? He di'nt sound too good."

"Prowl's safe." Prime whispered the words over the com, not trusting his vocaliser, not able to give voice to the other side of the equation. "Tell Blaster to recall the patrols… Bumblebee, Blue… anyone else who's out. No one else leaves the Ark. I'll address the crew when everyone's gathered." News would spread fast when it leaked, and no one should be alone for this. His crew would learn the truth together– as much of it as he could bear to tell – but Prime couldn't make Ironhide wait the hours a full recall would take. He rolled back into motion, trusting his lieutenant to pass on the order despite the other mech's confused expression. "Come with me."

The doors to Ratchet's repair bay slid open without ceremony, the vast room wide enough to take a transformed mech of Prime's size between the unoccupied berths. Prime disengaged his trailer with a sigh, concentrating hard to leave it unaffected as he resumed his root mode. Ironhide had locked the medbay doors in the few klicks it took Prime to omit the extra mass from his transformation sequence. The older mech took one look at the Prime's masked faceplates and his already wary expression became hard. His optics slid to the sealed trailer in grim anticipation.

"What happened, Prime?"

There was no putting it off, and no softening the blow. The trailer opened on Prime's signal. Its sides folded down in a ripple of noise and motion, the vibrant, living sound a painful contrast to the empty shell it revealed. Ironhide's vents stalled and restarted, harsh and angry. The mech stood rigid, optics bright with shock, power whining through his weapons systems.

"Jazz." The designation fell from Ironhide's lips in something that was part curse, part plea and part pained moan. Optimus watched in silence as the old weapons mech stepped forward, gathering the grey form in his arms with the same pointless gentleness Prime himself had shown minutes before.

Ironhide lifted the smaller frame onto a berth. His servos ghosted over the dark visor and then moved lower, to hover over the blast damage on Jazz's torso. His fist clenched and Ironhide spun on the spot, striking out at the metal berth beside Jazz's with a cry of rage.

"Who did this? Let me at 'em, Prime." His fist struck again, this time against the palm of his other hand. "When ah'm done there won't even be enough to smelt! Ah swear…"

A faint susurration from the door stopped his tirade in full flow. Both mechs turned, alarmed, before relaxing. Ratchet slipped into the room before the door was more than half open, sealing it behind him with the same medical overrides he'd used to get in. The medic looked weary; his shock mirrored Ironhide's and Prime's own. He ran a hand over tired faceplates, and when he spoke his expression and tone were bleak.

"I broke the logic loops and put him in a forced recharge for a couple of joors. He's in his quarters, with Teletraan keeping an eye on him. I want to be there when he wakes – it's going to take an expert to stop him looping again and it'll be easier when he's fully charged. But I think he'll be alright… physically."

"Prowl?" Ironhide demanded, looking from one mech to the other.

Ratchet's nod was scarcely necessary. "There were memory engrams so tangled I had to cut right through them just to get him to power down. The mech was already running a dozen tactical scenarios in parallel when he went looking for Jazz. When he found him… the cognitive dissonance sent his logic core into a near-total meltdown. His processor couldn't cope with what he was seeing." Ratchet paused, both voice and shoulders heavy. His optics slid past Ironhide to the berth behind him, and a thin keen escaped the medic's vocaliser. "I can't blame it."

"He saw who did this? What did he say? Who…?"

"Ironhide." Prime spoke aloud for the first time since their return, his voice soft. "Jazz offlined by his own hand."

He might as well have struck the warrior. Ironhide stared at him, poleaxed, his own logic processor refusing the input and demanding more data.

"That's what it looks like." Ratchet was too drained for emotion, his voice and expression blank. "Several hours before Prowl found him, judging by the blast decay."

Anger was gathering on Ironhide's faceplates now, mingled with blank disbelief. There was nothing for it. Optimus shielded and encrypted his signal, dialling down his transmitter to the minimum possible range, before sending Ironhide the image that would haunt all three of them to their final vorn.

Ironhide's knees buckled and he gripped the berth behind him hard enough to leave dents. He blinked away the sight of the blaster beneath Jazz's limp servo, and the point-blank wound that could only be self-inflicted. His helm shook from side to side, trying to refuse the evidence of Prime's optics. "No…"

"He was Special Ops…"

...Pre-selected for atypical personality types, exposed to more trauma than any normal mech could take, and trained to suppress and hide their reactions. Optimus didn't have to finish the thought aloud. The Prime vented slowly and evenly, concentrating on the control his mechs both needed and expected from him. Even so, he sank onto a med-berth, shoulders slumped as he stared down at his servos.

"It happened more than you think." Ratchet spoke in a low tone, voice sombre. "Some medics reckoned sixty percent of Ops losses in the field were not unintentional. Tactical knew it too. Every new Decepticon offensive had Ops tagged 'at risk'. The lulls before them left our mechs too much time to process what their servos had done, and what they'd have to do again. When they had to face it…" Ratchet's keen broke through again and he coughed to clear his vents, struggling for control. "I thought our three were coping with this phoney war we've stumbled into. Bumblebee's diverted his attention to Spike. Jazz… Jazz seemed to be enjoying these humans' culture." The medic barked a short, mirthless laugh. "I thought it was Mirage I needed to watch."

Optimus Prime knew nothing would ever relieve his own guilt. He made the effort to relieve Ratchet's nonetheless.

"We all missed this, even Prowl. Jazz… did not readily share his pain."

"Ah don't care," Ironhide grated. He glared at Optimus and Ratchet both, his optics bright with denial. "Ah don't care what Jazz was. Ah don't care what yer think yer saw. This ain't what it looks like."

The red mech scowled around the room. Optimus's optics and Ratchet's slid away from meeting his gaze.

"I wish I could believe that, old friend."

"Jazz wouldn't do this to himself. He wouldn't do it to us." Ironhide folded his arms, a firm nod underlining his words as if that could make them true. "And yer know what makes this worth about as much as a load of the Unmaker's cast-off circuits? Ah've known the mech half the length of this slaggin' war, Prime. Ah've seen bad times as well as good, and ah ain't gonna pretend Jazz was all sunshine and petrobunnies."

He grimaced, expression gathering into a deep frown.

"But if there's one thing ah'm slaggin' sure of, it's that the mech would stand in front of Unicron himself and throw static in his face rather than do this to Prowl."

* * *

"Hey 'Bee." Sideswipe eased into place beside the yellow scout, careful to keep his hail casual and friendly.

That didn't stop Bumblebee giving him a sharp look that pretty much confirmed Sideswipe's suspicions about the young spy's mood. He'd seen the mech's frown from across the crowded monitor room. At first, he'd assumed it was simple irritation with being recalled on his off-shift. It was only as the wait went on that he started to wonder if 'Bee might be more unsettled than annoyed.

"Hey Sides. Sunstreaker not around?" Bee's frown vanished behind a carefree grin and his left optic winked on and off.

"He's lurking over there..." Sides chuckled, nodding across the room to his sulking twin and taking comfort in the familiar question.

He suspected – and would have something to say to the mech if he ever found proof – that it was Jazz who first pointed out that Sideswipe and 'Bee could often be seen together, or Sunny and Sides, but never than the three hanging out at once. At first the jokes about Sides finding a cuddlier substitute for his Sunshine had worried him. Even _he_ hadn't been certain why Sunny went out of his way to avoid Bumblebee, and the last thing he needed was a jealous twin. Then a thoughtful 'Bee had cornered Sunstreaker for the conversation everyone else avoided. Sides had found 'Bee laughing in a mixture of relief and understanding.

It was pure fluke that the only minibot Sideswipe had any time for was very nearly the same yellow as his brother. That 'very nearly' explained pretty much everything about why Sideswipe's vain twin wasn't interested in being seen anywhere near 'Bee in public.

Now Sideswipe raised his optics to the ceiling and gave a theatrical vent as he finished the thought. "...Looking for 'bots he doesn't clash with."

Bumblebee's chuckles echoed his own. The smaller mech stretched a little, the better to see over the crowd, and the chuckle faded. Bumblebee's frown returned, just for a few klicks, as he watched Sunstreaker quiz Blaster in a low voice. He turned back to find Sideswipe studying him.

"Here to interrogate me too, Sides?"

Sideswipe shrugged. "Nah, we figure Prime's not told the junior officers anything. Blaster's not got a clue why we're here, and Wheeljack's more interested in fiddling with something that he probably shouldn't in a room this full. Red Alert's not been on shift since yesterday, and I'm pretty sure he's going to glitch if he's not allowed back to his monitors soon. And if they haven't been told, you're probably as much in the dark as the rest of us cannon-fodder too."

Bumblebee looked around the room, his optics flicking across the mechs Sideswipe had named as if confirming the red mech's analysis. Most of Sides' crewmates forgot that the sheer lunacy of his pranks were balanced by an eye for detail, and a sharp mind for planning and execution. The young Ops mech knew him too well for that. 'Bee hummed, neither denying or confirming the speculation, and folded his arms across his bumper. At first, Sideswipe thought that was all the response he'd get.

That was disappointing. Bumblebee could be a fun mech to be around, his playful side all the more obvious now he spent so much time with the human youngling, but he was Ops, after all. And he was worried.

"Optimus asked Spike to go to the humans' room," the mech volunteered. "He said something about calling Sparkplug to take him home."

Sideswipe whistled under his breath. "So something NSFH?" He grinned at the baffled look 'Bee send his way. "Not suitable for humans," he clarified. "Must be pretty big, considering the messes Prime's let Spike get himself into."

"Yeah," Bumblebee agreed. "I thought it was odd."

"Odd doesn't really cut it." Sideswipe's grin faded. "'Cause ya see, it's been almost a joor since Blaster called the patrols in, half a joor since folks decided the command deck was _the_ place to hang out, and an hour since Prime told everyone to be here. By now we should have Jazz around to keep folks from getting restless," he rolled his optics, "or at least to amuse himself spreading unlikely rumours. We should have Prowl doing a headcount, and stopping Cliffjumper from riling up Mirage."

Bumblebee winced, glancing over at the pair and the circle of interested spectators gathering around them. The minibot looked uncertain for a few moments, wondering if his rank as junior lieutenant meant he should intervene, given the unusual lack of senior officers. Blaster seemed to read his processor, leaving Sunstreaker and ambling over to see what he could do before things got out of hand.

Bumblebee shrugged, leaning back against a handy stalagmite and giving Sideswipe a sidelong look.

"I honestly don't know," he admitted, freed up to speculate by his own total ignorance. "Optimus and Prowl were looking for Jazz this morning. Maybe he finally heard something about the 'Cons?"

It was a theory that made about as much sense as any Sideswipe had heard, and more than most. A quick check with Sunstreaker suggested Blaster couldn't add much to Bee's speculation – only that Jazz had been out of touch for a while halfway through first watch, and that the Ark's senior officers had been acting strangely just about as long.

"Autobots."

Prime's voice wasn't loud. If anything it was softer than normal. Even so, the grave tone cut through the rising conversation. Every mech fell silent. Every optic turned towards the sound, Bumblebee's and Sideswipe's amongst them.

Prime stood framed by the hatch that led deeper into the ship, Ironhide in his shadow. Sideswipe watched with a frown as they moved towards Teletraan's terminal, the crowd parting in front of them. The significant lack of Prime's second and third in command concerned him; what kind of new intel required both the Chief Tactical Officer's and Head of Special Operations' full attention? Even setting that worrisome question aside, Ratchet's continued absence was just plain confusing.

Prime stood facing Teletraan-1 for a long moment before turning. His shoulders rose and fell as he drew in a deep vent, but his faceplates were impassive as he raised a hand to still a wave of questions. His first words only confirmed what half the mechs watching him were starting to suspect.

"Autobots, I have something… difficult to tell you." Optimus paused, and Sideswipe wished he was better at reading his Prime's optics. With the battlemask in place, those dim blue glows were all the clues he had. They couldn't prepare him for what was coming. "I am deeply sorry to inform you that our Third in Command and Head of Special Operations, Jazz, has returned to the Matrix."

Shock froze Sideswipe's limbs and silenced his vocaliser. Others in the crowd shared his reaction, standing like statues amidst the rising chaos. Between them, voices cried out, some in denial, others in a keening wail and still others in anger. Sideswipe couldn't process the input. None of this made sense. It couldn't possibly be real.

But Optimus Prime stood, tall and blank-faced, in front of Teletraan-1, and their Prime had never lied to them. He never would lie, not about this. Not about a loss that could tear them all apart. Ironhide moved to the Prime's side, and the expression on the old warrior's face banished the last of Sideswipe's desperate disbelief. Ironhide was grim, cold, every inch the professional soldier, and his fists were clenched tightly enough to damage their servos.

"I understand that this has come as a shock to us all." Optimus spoke over the grief-stricken chorus, and the waver in his voice – slight, but there to be heard – lent his words the ring of truth. The large mech paused before going on in an even, matter-of-fact tone.

"The next three duty shifts will be staffed on a voluntary basis." Sideswipe let the arrangements sweep past him. He couldn't think of working right now, wasn't even rational enough to crave the oblivion of high grade. There'd be some who'd head that way, others who needed the comfort of routine to handle their grief. "Those wishing to participate should report to – " Prime half-turned towards Ironhide and then paused, giving his security director a long look as the entire room heard Red Alert's com ping. Finally, Prime nodded. " – should report to Red Alert for assignment. Autobots, I am truly sorry. Jazz's loss lessens every spark amongst us. Until all are one."

The tall mech bowed his helm, and the room fell silent, every Autobot following their Prime's example. Beside Sideswipe, Bumblebee trembled, the mech's optics bright with shock and his vents coming in ragged pants. Sideswipe took a step towards his smaller friend, servos raised to touch his shoulder, before he remembered Bumblebee's seldom-displayed Ops training and thought better than to startle him.

The thought brought him circling back to Jazz and there was no hiding the whine that spilled from his vocaliser. Prime looked in his direction and past him to 'Bee, compassion in his optics, before murmuring 'dismissed' almost too softly to hear.

Sideswipe let his helm drop into his servos, shutting out the world. He couldn't shut out the roiling emotions that swept out from his own spark. His helm rose, almost against his will, his optics already locked on his twin brother from across the room.

Sunstreaker stood alone, his fists clenched at his sides. If the way the Autobots near him edged away was any indication, even they could see the waves of sheer, ice-cold fury that roiled off the mech. Sunstreaker's faceplates were harsh with anger, no room on them for grief or dismay.

"Is that _it_?"

A few mechs had started to drift towards the doors. Sunstreaker's furious demand stopped them in their tracks. Prime turned towards the front-liner with apparent calm, one hand spread behind him to still Ironhide's response to such aggression.

"Sunstreaker."

"Is that it?" Sunny repeated. "Jazz is gone. Take a day off. That's all." He shook his helm, stalking forward until he stood within Prime's reach. "Like _frag_ that's all! What the Pit happened, Prime? How… when… who… _why?!_"

"Sunstreaker." This time Prime put a stern note in his voice. "I know you have questions. Everyone here has." The powerful engine rumbled, and Sideswipe was sure he'd never heard his Prime so weary. Shaking himself, the red front-liner pushed through the crowd, not sure whether he planned to restrain his brother or back his protest. Prime gave them both a grave look. "I am asking you to trust that I'm telling you all I can at this time. When we have a fuller understanding of events – "

Sunstreaker scowled, looking around the room. His blue optics flashed bright, the mech too angry to see reason. "This isn't Cybertron. We're not just going to nod and go on and convince ourselves it's just war. This crew… We have a right to know, Prime. Where's Ratchet? Where's _Prowl_?"

There was no ignoring the angry growl of Ironhide's engine, and not even Prime's warning look could still his new third officer.

"If you bother the mech right now, ah swear…"

"_Enough!_"

Silence fell, and this time Sideswipe reached out to take Sunny's arm. The limb vibrated in his grip and he could feel Sunstreaker's grief-fuelled anger still burning, but not even the front-liner would challenge a Prime who sounded like that.

"Enough," Prime repeated, only a fraction less vehemently. "Sunstreaker, Sideswipe… all of you. As I was trying to say: you will be informed when we have concrete facts to share. Wild speculation is both dangerous and discourteous, and I will _not_ tolerate such disrespect to the memory of a mech I will never stop grieving." He shook his helm. "Officers are under orders not to discuss this situation. To that end, the repair bay, senior officers' quarters and command corridor will be off-limits with immediate effect. _Any_ mech found speculating without foundation, pressing for additional information, or causing undue disruption will be confined to the brig."

For several seconds, no one dared move. Sideswipe's grip on his brother's arm was tight enough now to dent the plating, but Sunstreaker didn't react. He stood, frozen, his optics locked with Prime's.

"Jazz's loss will require significant adjustments. Of necessity, much of the burden will fall on our second-in-command." Prime paused before continuing, although it was doubtful anyone on this crew could miss the layers of complexity to that statement. Sideswipe found himself surprisingly grateful for the simple indication that Prowl was functioning and able to do the adjusting. He couldn't dispute Prime's next sentiment: "Jazz would not thank anyone who added to it."

Optimus looked around the silent room, sharing grief with the dimmed optics that met his and noting those, like Sideswipe's, that shied away. Nodding once, the Prime strode towards the door.

"That will be all," he said, and this time nobody argued.

* * *

The room was quiet, lights low, air still. Prowl came to himself lying on his side. His door-wings were spread behind him, Ratchet standing beside his berth. The traces of a forced recharge algorithm lingered on the edge of his processor, and Jazz was offline.

The knowledge hung in his memory cache like a truth of nature. The Sun rose every morning, Optimus was his Prime, and Jazz was offline.

Keening softly, Prowl searched his processor for more, reaching for some way to understand the bare words. There was an image, he knew. He remembered crying out, and falling to his knees, stricken by the sight in front of him. The memory was there, but the imagery itself was inaccessible, locked behind medic-grade firewalls.

"I'm sorry." Ratchet spoke before he could. The voice sounded slurred in Prowl's audios and he realised belatedly that sedative programming was affecting his inputs. "I'm sorry, Prowl, but I need you to process the basic facts before you try to analyse them."

Jazz was offline.

The saboteur had greeted his friend, joked with him, offered to watch a movie with him, and then gone out into the bright dawn light and destroyed his own spark chamber.

"Damn it, Prowl," Ratchet grumbled wearily, and Prowl felt the alien firewalls in his processor expand, forcibly breaking both the logic loop that refused to make sense of that thought and the tactical programming that searched the memory for some sign of what was to come.

Jazz was offline by his own hand, and Prowl knew instinctively that he'd never understand why.

"I failed him."

The words escaped him before he could censor them. Ratchet startled, the movement sending a cool breeze across Prowl's upper door-wing. The Praxian felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard.

"We all did. But he was good at what he did. Hiding was second nature to him."

Not from Prowl. Not this. Unbidden, memories returned of Jazz sprawled on Prowl's couch, talking for hours, letting the smiling façade drop as he never would in front of others. Prowl had no clear idea of just when he'd become his best friend's confidante, just as he couldn't remember when Jazz had become his. He'd listened to Jazz's concerns for his Ops team, for the crew and the Autobot cause in general. He'd comforted the mech when Jazz wondered about his own place in the Cybertron they hoped to reclaim. He'd shared Jazz's well-founded fears that neither of them would live long enough to see that day. He'd seen his friend's determination to defy the long odds, and his confidence in his own skill. And he knew, with a certainty that surpassed words, that Jazz would never give up. The mech he knew would never abandon his crewmates – not here, not now, not with so much still at stake and the enemy still threatening them all.

Jazz had offlined himself: that was fact. Jazz was incapable of doing any such thing, and that was fact too, as incontrovertible as the first.

"Don't do this, Prowl." With infinite patience, Ratchet broke the logic process trying to reconcile the conflict. The medic left his memories intact, watching as the entire process started again.

Jazz was offline. Prowl had seen many mechs offline during the long war. He'd grieved them all, friend and stranger alike, feeling each death more acutely than most would believe. Losing Jazz was like tearing a hole in his own spark, but there was no denial in his processor. He couldn't pretend not to know, not with the data ringing through his memory banks and Ratchet hovering over him.

Jazz dead on the battlefield or, worse still, hanging from the walls of a Decepticon cell… the images pained him, but he'd seen them all too often in disturbed recharge cycles, or when planning his friend's next mission. He'd long since accepted the possibility, even discussed it with the mech himself.

Jazz was offline and all of Prowl's tactical skill could do nothing to change that fact.

He felt Ratchet watching his thoughts, the hardline connection between them strangely lacking in intimacy. Now though, the medic's reaction was strong enough to leak through. A new image spilled into Prowl's processor, of a greyed-out frame on a brushed-steel berth, far beyond medical aid. The image flickered and vanished, its details locked behind that same firewall.

"Show me." Prowl spoke softly, stirring for the first time and reaching out to catch Ratchet's wrist. The medic stared down at him, and slowly, unwillingly, nodded.

The memory returned. Jazz's familiar visor was dark, his faceplates blank and expressionless. He lay still, as he'd never been still in all his functioning, black and white plating faded to almost-unrecognisable grey. The actual damage was slight, insignificant compared with injuries both tactician and medic had seen the Ops mech survive. The hole was no larger than Prowl's clenched first, its edges curled with heat. A single shot, angled upwards through his chest plating and destroying the spark chamber behind.

It was a quick death. Clean, if suicide could ever be called that. Prowl keened for his friend, knowing he'd miss him until the day all became one.

He couldn't deny Jazz was gone. Nor could he deny that the wound was consistent with being self-inflicted. If he couldn't rationalise Jazz choosing this path for himself, then Prowl must be missing data.

The logic conflicts faded, tension easing from Prowl's muscle cables. The tactician still languished in the haze of sedatives, his processor under-clocking until he could think no better than a normal mech, but he had a conclusion he could live with, and an objective to work towards.

Prowl would find out what had forced Jazz's hand in this, if it was the last thing he did. Something, somewhere, had left the mech no better option than self-destruction. Whether that pressure was Decepticon in origin, human, Autobot, or even some unintended blow from Prowl himself, he would discover it and see justice done for his friend.

Ratchet hummed. The medic's uncertainty echoed between them, but Prowl felt him withdraw nonetheless. Prowl was processing smoothly now; Ratchet might not like the path his thoughts took, but he had no excuse for eavesdropping further. The sedative programming he left in place, but both it and the firewall around Prowl's memories were set to decay over the next few hours, giving the tactician a chance to adjust.

"You're off-duty for at least another shift. That sedative will keep most of your tactical algorithms off-line, so don't even think of trying to override it, understand?" Ratchet sighed, patting his patient's shoulder before reaching up to rub his own grey chevron. "Now, I'm going to sit here, catch up with some reading, and you are going to damn well _rest_, Prowl. That processor of yours already shook itself out of recharge half a joor before it was meant to. Tire yourself out and you're going to start looping again. I don't need the work."

"Understood."

Prowl relaxed back against his berth, aware of Ratchet moving across the room, picking up a datapad and settling into a chair with a vented sigh. He couldn't blame the weary medic for not wanting to face what awaited him in the medbay. Nor for wanting Prowl himself monitored.

The tactician did his friend the courtesy of remaining still until Ratchet's own vents settled, his systems powering down into an unintended recharge. Only then did he slip from his berth, pausing to ease the datapad from Ratchet's hand and the medic himself into a more comfortable position.

Quietly, but burning with determination, Prowl left his quarters. He had work to do.

* * *

Something was wrong.

There was no clear thought behind the knowledge, only pure feeling and well-honed instinct. Memories hovered tantalisingly close, just out of reach. He should be reaching for them, trying to understand, but even that much was beyond him right now.

That didn't make this any less wrong. His spark vibrated, tense and uncertain.

A weird sensation swept through him. Something was prodding him, teasing him, edging him in a certain direction, towards something he couldn't quite perceive.

He had no reason to resist, not really. Nothing but instinctual discomfort, and the sheer contrariness that was intrinsic to his very being. He pushed back, the mischievous impulse he'd been sparked with in one accord with the darker shadow that had long since become part of him.

Jazz had never been a cooperative mech, in all the vorns since his spark first kindled.

He wasn't about to start now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The box sat on Starscream's lab desk with all the sparkly temptation of a tin of energon goodies or a seekerlet's toy chest. Skywarp's finger-servos twitched, reaching towards it of their own accord.

They stopped short, and not just because his processor was still ringing with Shockwave's more-than-usually graphic threats. The Seeker hadn't understood more than half the mono-opticed mech's warnings against touching the thing. He didn't need to. Even if the box wasn't exuding the most jarringly _wrong_ energy field he'd ever felt, he'd seen what Shockwave _did_ to the Autobot. Skywarp wasn't above his fair share of 'bot-bashing, but it had been all he could do not to purge on the spot, or warp away and leave the insane scientist to his own entertainment.

He felt like purging again now. Shuffling uncomfortably from ped to ped, he tucked his servos behind his wings and listened to Megatron's voice echo through the hull of the Nemesis. Lord Megatron seemed to be taking it in turns to berate his underlings lately, displeased by how long it had been since any of them proposed a workable offensive against the 'bots. Starscream had been his first target, as always, but now Soundwave, Shockwave and the special team leaders were learning to regret the Seeker's absence. Megatron's wrath, undeflected, was a frightening thing.

Shockwave's voice rose in obsequious agreement, and Skywarp shuddered. Why couldn't the mech have stayed on Cybertron, given them Starscream back, and left 'Warp himself well out of it? At the very least he could knock it off with the creepy not-quite-seen smiles and fawning over their war-leader.

Skywarp might have aided and abetted the interloper's latest project, but he couldn't help wondering whether even Megatron really condoned his lieutenant's methods or knew all the details. He'd have had no part of this himself, if he had any choice in the matter. It was fear, rather than duty, that stopped the Seeker from running, back in the clearing.

His optics slid away from the box with another shudder and he started to pace, unable to stop his subconscious drawing him back towards the workbench, time and again. He found himself reaching out once more and jerked his hand back with a muttered profanity. If he ruined Shockwave's experiment now, Megatron would be more than just a little annoyed. The thought was a frightening one. Starscream wasn't here, and Shockwave could hardly be counted on to shield him. Skywarp was as vulnerable as the Combaticons had been when Megatron's indulgent smiles turned to scowls. He'd always thought the rumours of what happened to them after that were so much sump oil. Now…

He didn't plan on giving his new boss the slightest hint of a reason to turn the same calculating gaze on him and T.C. that he had on the Autobot. If that meant sitting here while Shockwave was off listening to another of their leader's rants, well, Skywarp had learned when to grit his denta and just nod.

He just couldn't help wishing the Cybertronian lieutenant could find something less, well, dull for him to do. Seekers weren't made for confinement in such a small space. It made him restless… jittery. Simple guard duty should be left to the grounders, and usually was, if Starscream had his way. This time though… Skywarp honestly wasn't sure if he was here because Shockwave really wanted the box-thing protected, or because he didn't want Skywarp anywhere near Soundwave and his cassettes until he'd made more progress. If the orn-long, long-range patrol Thundercracker just landed was anything to go by, he was willing to bet on the latter.

Not, Skywarp reminded himself firmly, optics drawn inexorably back to the vibrating box, that he really wanted to know.

"Get _away_ from that!"

"Wasn't touching!" He was jumping away before Shockwave got more than half way through the command. He backed up against the wall, servos raised in front of him as if he could ward off his commander's anger like a physical blow.

Shockwave fumed visibly as he strode across the room. His plating was scratched, dented where he'd been thrown against something. A crack in his faceplate suggested that even the sycophantic Cybertronian hadn't been spared his leader's wrath.

"Ah… I thought everything was going kinda okay. Why's Lord Megatron in such a mood?"

A servo twitched, Shockwave dismissing his questions without a thought. The Decepticon-purple mech hunched over the box, inspected it minutely. He hardly seemed to register Skywarp's vague concern

"Lord Megatron is not tolerant of delays." It was as close as Shockwave would ever get to criticism. "The Autobot _will_ yield. I merely require a little patience, and our Lord will not be well served if his… strong leadership… leads to a cessation of this experiment _before_ I've learnt the mech's secrets."

If he ever did… if you could still call this a mech…

Skywarp shivered, plating rattling on his wings. He watched his new superior prod the handful of cloudy white crystals seated at one end of the box-like device, adjusting them minutely before turning his attention instead to the power supply. Shockwave frowned, seating himself at the work-bench and setting several monitors going. Only then did he send a surge of current arcing from the power supply to the small, sealed chamber mounted beside it.

Shockwave's systems growled his frustration. Skywarp felt vaguely ill as he watched the spark signature on the monitors fluctuate, steady and then dance again, never quite stabilising for long enough to decrypt the personality components and memory banks coded to it. It resisted each burst of energy, each attempt to sync and then read the Autobots' passwords, plans and tactical information from the memory crystals. He couldn't help noticing that it burned a little fainter every time.

"Ah… sir?"

"I have no time for distractions," Shockwave grunted, waving a dismissive hand over one shoulder. "Find Thundercracker. Join him on patrol. Report straight to me when ordered." He paused, twisting his helm until his single scarlet optic caught Skywarp, chilling him to the spark. "Tell no one."

Give him orns, vorns, a lifetime and a return trip to the Matrix, and it would still be too soon for Skywarp to want to talk about this. He left without a word.

He could have done without the cassettes lurking just outside Starscream's lab. Frenzy felt the force of his angst, shoved aside with more violence than strictly necessary. Skywarp stood over the downed cassette and then turned to leave, shooting a glare at Rumble for good measure.

The pile-driving cassette scowled, running a few steps forward to catch hold of a wingtip. "Hey, hold up."

"What do you want, cretin?"

Frenzy rolled his eyes, pushing himself back to his pedes and following. "Says the pot to the kettle," he muttered before raising his voice. "Hey, 'Warp, the Boss wants to know what ol' Shocker's up to."

'"Sure he does." Fat surprise there. Skywarp didn't let the cassettes slow him down. "Not telling."

"There's high grade in it, and Frenzy an' I'll let you in on what we're planning against the 'Structies…"

It was a tempting offer. Skywarp would usually jump at it. From the way Rumble let his voice trail off into enticing silence, it seemed he knew that too.

Not tempting enough.

All it took was one flashback to Shockwave leaning over a black and white frame as it faded, one memory of purple servos fiddling with that accursed box, and the temptation fled.

"I'm saying nothing." Skywarp repeated with more vehemence. He forced a vicious grin onto his face to cover the fearful grimace. "But, _Pit_… believe me, Soundwave's never going to top this one."

He warped before they could question him further. Comming Thundercracker for a location reference, Skywarp ignited his thrusters and spiralled into the skies above the Nemesis, wanting nothing more than to feel sunlight on his wings and fresh air in his vents.

* * *

"Over here."

Mirage's quiet voice emerged from a shadow cast by the curve of the corridor. Bumblebee slipped from the vent, brushing Earth-dust from his plating even as he ducked to avoid one of the omni-present security cameras. He slipped into the shadow and felt a familiar energy field brush his own. A moment later, he shivered, and knew that he was concealed by more than simple shadow.

"Well?" For all his polite demeanour, there was an impatient snap in Mirage's vocaliser. Bumblebee reached out, not needing sight to pat familiar blue plating with a reassurance his words couldn't justify.

"No go. Vents are locked tight. Guess there's been one too many of us breaking in over the years." He sighed. "It's got to be the door or nothing."

Mirage accepted the murmured report in thoughtful silence. Going in through the door meant hacking the lock, and both Ops mechs knew that the task might well be beyond them. It had been programmed by an expert after all, and neither would ever rival Jazz's skills at computer espionage.

A cautious half-breem passed before the two started forward, Mirage to the door controls, Bumblebee to loop the camera watching it. Both worked quickly, all too aware that they could be caught at any moment, and how much trouble they'd be in if they did.

Going up against the security system directly would get them nowhere. Knowing whose programmes they were working against, it didn't surprise either mech when it took the efforts of both, and more than an hour of careful work, to circumvent it instead; one to distract the subroutines probing their identity, the other searching for the safety overrides that had to be there.

The door slid open with a quiet hum. Bumblebee let go a vent of relief, but Jazz had trained him too well to let down his guard just because he'd overcome the first hurdle. He slipped inside, wary as he scanned the room. It wasn't until Mirage faded into view, nodding to confirm that the side office was also empty, that Bumblebee let some of his tension go.

Not all of it, by any means.

He steadied himself against a polished steel berth, feeling the chill of it sink into his frame. A single sweep of his optics had been enough to tell him their objective wasn't on any of the other berths around him. That left only one place it could be.

Mirage was first to approach the closed door next door to the office. Bumblebee hurried after him. His didn't touch his fellow Ops mech, only stood in silent support as they studied the metal barrier. Their inaction didn't last long. They'd come too far to stop now, and they wouldn't have even attempted this had it not been necessary.

"Open it," Mirage whispered.

Bumblebee nodded, clearing his vents and bracing himself before stabbing at the control panel with a lone finger-servo.

The door slid open. Lights came up.

Venting hard, Bumblebee took a step out of the repair bay proper and into the private room that Ratchet usually used for long-term treatments. He wouldn't be treating Jazz – there was no medical aid that could return a dissipated spark to its frame.

Jazz's shell lay drab and dull under the fluorescents. It didn't react as Mirage and Bumblebee moved to flank its berth. There was no flicker in the grey visor, and even the Ops-trained systems of the two visitors were loud after the silence that had gone before.

Bumblebee studied his commander's shell, grim-faced. Somewhere in the back of his processor, his emotional subroutines were screaming at him. He ignored them. He'd seen too much death to let one offline frame break his concentration. Not just the enemy. Not just strangers. He'd seen friends offlined on the battlefield, and sat through too many debriefings for missions that cost his fellow Ops mechs their sparks. He'd suffer for it later, but he could look at the frame of his friend and mentor and assess it with a cold and experienced optic.

He didn't like what he saw.

Mirage's fine finger-servos spread above the wound on Jazz's chest, measuring it and letting his most sensitive scanners play across it. The spy drew his hand back with a blank expression that mirrored Bumblebee's own. Their optics met, both steady but dark with knowledge.

"So it's true." The words sounded all the more final in Mirage's Towers accent. Bumblebee nodded, folding his arms across his chest.

"It's not like we didn't suspect."

"No."

'Bee blinked. There was no waver in Mirage's stoic façade, only the flat denial.

"No, Bumblebee." Mirage folded his arms across his chest. "Not like this. Jazz taking himself off on some kind of suicide mission, that…" The spy shook his helm. "Like this? No."

Mirage's doubt planted a seed in his own processor. The two of them had discussed the options. Neither had truly believed their friend and commander could fall to the same dark thoughts that stole so many of their peers. After two joors of watching their senior officers they'd been forced to concede the possibility nonetheless. Even then, they'd expected to find Jazz's frame torn up, showing evidence for a vain assault against some Decepticon stronghold, or even missing entirely, unrecoverable.

That wasn't what they'd found. Bumblebee didn't need scanners or an analytic programme to reconstruct the trajectory of the blast that killed Jazz, or to recognise the distinctive signatures of the mech's own blaster. There couldn't be clearer evidence of self-destruction.

On paper, it was the same thing. In their world, there couldn't be more difference.

"Not like this," Bumblebee agreed. "Jazz killing himself to rid us of a Decepticon threat, or assigning himself a mission too far… okay." His fists clenched by his side. He wouldn't like it, but… okay. "This… no."

There was a beat or two of silence. Bumblebee could hear his own sparkbeat. He fixed his optics on the ragged metal of Jazz's wound, not letting them stray up to the familiar faceplates.

"So what are we saying? That Jazz stood still and let someone shoot him?"

Mirage tilted his helm, studying the frame. "There's not another scratch on him."

Slowly, carefully, Bumblebee reached out. Jazz's hand was cold in his. Limp finger-servos spread under his gentle touch and both Mirage and Bumblebee himself bent over them inspecting them closely.

The marks they were half-dreading, half-hoping to see, were there sure enough. Scarcely-visible striations in the now-grey plating on Jazz's fingers marked where they'd curled around his blaster, a minor dent left by the trigger as it recoiled. Both mechs frowned as Bumblebee turned the hand over. Mirage scowled, reaching out himself to stroke the marks on the _outside_ of Jazz's fist with the lightest of touches.

He gave Bumblebee a questioning look, and the minibot could only shrug in return. It wasn't evidence. Not meaningful information they could act upon. Jazz could easily have got these dents and scratches shaking hands with an enthusiastic larger mech – Ironhide, Inferno, a dinobot even. Anyone could have squeezed his hand, anytime in the last couple of days. There was no reason to suppose that pressure was in any way suspicious, that the hand had been forced, or that another fist had closed around Jazz's in those last crucial moments.

No real reason…

"The gun was lying beside him."

Neither Ops mech jumped. Bumblebee laid down his friend's servos with as much careful precision as he'd lifted it. Even so, he had to take a couple of klicks to power down his defensive systems after the shock, and could feel Mirage doing the same.

Prowl blocked the way back into Medbay. The tactician looked tired. His door-wings hung limp behind him, and his dim optics suggested he was running twenty percent charge at the most. Even so, Bumblebee had to admit to a certain amount of relief just seeing him. Prowl had put in a few appearances on the command deck, stoic and blank-faced. Otherwise, he'd spent the whole day locked into either his quarters or his office, and Bumblebee hadn't got a good look at the mech that whole time. He'd caught only the briefest of glimpses when Ratchet marched through the command deck and yanked open the second-in-command's office door to shout at him for a while.

Now Prowl's servos clenched at his sides. His optics lingered on Jazz's faceplates and Bumblebee was grateful he and Mirage were blocking Prowl's view of the mech's wounded torso. Prowl shook his head, letting his gaze drop to the metal floor.

"It fell out of his hand, when…"

"Who put it there?" The question escaped before Bumblebee could rethink it. Prowl's optics snapped up, meeting his for a few sparkbeats before falling away again.

"I wish I knew."

The pause that followed was deeply awkward. There had been dark things in Prowl's harsh whisper, things Bumblebee wasn't comfortable hearing from the reserved officer. Mirage vented softly before taking a half-step forward.

"Prowl…"

"Go." Prowl turned away, stepping back so he no longer blocked the route out through the repair bay.

"Uh…"

"The two of you had a right to know. There's a ninety-five percent probability you'd guessed the truth regardless. And Jazz wouldn't want to see you brigged for this. So, go."

Bumblebee hesitated, not liking the tension that vibrated through Prowl's door-wings and lent a sharp edge to his voice. He could feel Mirage hesitate beside him. Prowl glanced back at them with a scowl, the wings flaring a little.

"Mirage, I believe Hound has already contacted Red Alert looking for you. Bumblebee, you should be aware that you're also under observation. Long absences will no doubt cause comment and concern." His voice never rose above a steady cadence. Even so the threat was clear. "I'm impressed that you managed to get into medbay undetected, I know Jazz worked long and hard on those protocols. However, in thirty klicks I am going to reactivate the security alerts set specifically on this room. I will not override them a second time."

He strode away without a second look, and there was a hiss as medbay's doors opened for him and closed behind. Bumblebee and Mirage exchanged a long glance before following, careful to be clear of both the side room and the repair bay proper before Prowl's deadline passed. They separated at the corridor, no more than a brush of energy fields acknowledging their parting.

Now wasn't the time to press this further. That didn't mean either mech was about to drop their pursuit of the truth.

They owed Jazz, Prowl and their own grieving sparks better than that.

* * *

The console felt warm beneath Red Alert's finger servos. He could name every mech within a hundred yards of him, knew where each was and what they were doing. Even so, he felt an almost overwhelming urge to check over his shoulder before hitting the enter key on his search algorithm.

He was under no illusions about what he was doing. Brig time was almost a certainty if he were caught. As unthinkable as that was, the prospect of Optimus Prime's disappointment and Prowl's blank silence troubled him more. It was almost enough to stop him.

Not quite.

He'd given Prime an Earth day to brief him. Red Alert had waited four full joor-long shifts for their leader to get past his initial shock and bring his security officer up to speed. Even then, the memo he'd sent to Optimus, bypassing Prowl's office entirely, had been cautiously couched. His request to talk to his Prime regarding "security implications of the current situation" had met with a simple acknowledgement and nothing resembling an answer. He had to suppose he'd gotten off luckily; he'd skirted close enough to Prime's prohibition that he'd half expected a visit from Ironhide before his shift finished.

Now he was going further.

The security files had been locked. Hardly surprising. And hardly a problem. Red Alert had back doors into most of the Ark's security systems, and while Jazz, and even Prowl at a push, was capable of keeping him out, neither had programmed this. It was almost too easy to track back through the Ark's camera records, familiar data streaming past and dancing as his fingers played across the console.

He couldn't let this go on. He needed to know. Whatever had taken their third-in-command from them, he needed to assess and evaluate the risk. Jazz held more confidential data in his secure files than anyone short of Prowl. If even the least of that had been compromised, then every mech on the Ark and every human they protected could be at risk.

Others might accuse him of paranoia for even thinking that way. As turbulent as emotions were on the Ark right now, there were mechs who might send him to medbay for even suggesting Jazz might have betrayed such crucial information. Red Alert knew better than most that no mech was infallible. He wouldn't be doing his job, or able to live with any consequences, if he didn't at least investigate the possibility. He only wished that knowledge could make this easier.

Jazz grinned at him from the monitors, idly molesting Prowl as their second took his place at the monitor desk. It hurt to see him there, tired after a long shift, but relaxed and smiling. He should scroll past, he knew, out of common decency if nothing else. Usually he would. He left the spying to Mirage and the rest of Ops, sticking to a code of conduct he held as dear as the Autobot code itself.

But… this was it. This was last time anyone on the Ark had seen Jazz, so far as he'd been able to discover. If he was going to trace the saboteur's movements, he had to start here. Rubbing his helm horns to ease the charge there, Red Alert watched that morning's events unfold with a steely optic.

A long time passed before the screens went dark, and longer still before the security director realised he was no longer alone.

"Red Alert."

"Prime," Red Alert acknowledged quietly. He swivelled his chair, meeting his leader's optics without shame or regret. "I should have been told."

"Indeed." Prime vented heavily, taking a step forward. "My apologies."

Red Alert nodded. His processor was still spinning, trying to process what he'd seen and the implications. There'd be time for emotion later. For the moment he needed to remain calm.

"What's being done?"

"We will hold a memorial. When Ratchet has completed his report, we must honour – "

Red Alert blinked at him, his optics cycling through a reboot.

"No, Prime," he interrupted. "I've _seen_ the recordings. I've checked the timings." He hadn't felt good, checking for any delay between Prowl arriving at the sensor blind patch and the other officers' reaction to his call. Even the few moments of doubt and suspicion before he eliminated that possibility left his tanks churning. "Jazz entered a region of almost ten thousand square yards completely surrounded by cameras, but not itself under active surveillance. There is no sign of further movement on the peripheral sensors until Prowl discovered him, offline. There is only one logical conclusion."

"I know."

Red nodded firmly. He looked up at his Prime with a confident expression.

"So what's being done to evaluate the threat?"

This time it was Optimus Prime's turn to blink. "Red Alert… What threat?"

"Was there any sign Jazz was hacked?" Red persisted. His fists clenched by his sides, his professional mask unable to hide his scowl. "What's being done about _Skywarp_?"

Concern mingling with confusion, Red Alert met his Prime's blank look with one of his own. Optimus Prime simply stared.

* * *

Nothing. There was nothing.

Prowl let his optics cycle down to darkness. His folded arms rested on the desk in front of him and now he let his helm drop down too, door-wings rising instinctively to shield him from the world around him.

It did little good. Even here in his office, he was aware of the rumble of movement elsewhere in the Ark. His locked door did nothing to spare him the weight of concern and expectations that strained his back-struts.

A gratifying number of Autobots had insisted on working through their shock. Sporadic patrol reports were landing in Prowl's inbox, together with occasional complaints from the human military. Red Alert must have hacked every human camera network within three hundred miles of the Ark to extend their security zone, sinking his own grief into the task of covering for his distracted crewmates.

Despite those heroic efforts, Prowl knew the Autobots were shaken to their sparks. His occasional forays into the Ark's security system had shown him Ironhide keeping an eye on the Rec Room, drinking with those who needed the comfort of high grade, sharing gruff words with those who needed to talk. Ratchet had spelled him at least once, dishing out more than a few over-charge antidotes and dragging the twins into a rough embrace when the volatile front-liners looked ready to storm the Nemesis single-handed.

Prime was working in the control room, coordinating the skeleton crew, after dismissing Red Alert for a few breems of recharge. The tall mech stood unbowed. His voice was calm and strong as he responded to each report, reminding the crew that one loss would not break them.

Prowl's place should be by his side. He knew that, and had taken the time to put in short shifts in the control room. The crew needed to see that he was alive and well. They needed to hear his even voice and understand that he meant to complete the work his closest friend had left unfinished. Those short spells, the covert and overt inspection and constant stream of mechs passing through the control room to check on him, had been enough. The crew needed to see him, yes. But Prowl needed his own time and space more.

His office had become his haven, a shelter in which he could work at the project that consumed every glimmer of his spark.

And now… now it seemed all his work had been for nothing.

Prowl shuddered, his chevron digging into his arm plates. He'd traced every minute of Jazz's last half-orn, made a note of where he'd been and to whom he'd spoken. He'd considered every Autobot Jazz associated with, examined the saboteur's demeanour whenever the mech lingered in a public area, and after every non-routine conversation. He'd got at least two levels into Jazz's personal files, searching for any hint that something might be troubling the Ops mech.

And after all that, he was left with the inescapable truth. Jazz had no problem with the other Autobots. The only time he appeared visibly distressed, even to his closest friend, was three days before his death, returning to his quarters after he and Prowl had argued long into the off-shift. The discussion, about the morality of bringing their war to Earth, was one they'd had before. It was one Prowl always assumed they'd have again.

He knew the human losses, and perhaps more so the way they'd warped human culture by their mere presence, troubled Jazz. It troubled them both.

Had that discussion been the tipping point? Had it been the cog that finally jammed the gears in Jazz's processor? Was all this Prowl's fault?

No. Prowl's thought processes looped for the dozenth time, barely under his control. There was no logic in that conclusion.

The sheer futility of Jazz's suicide would make no difference to humanity's fate, and if there was one thing Jazz had done with his life it was make a difference. Prowl couldn't imagine his friend would chose any different in the manner of his death.

Unless… unless the statement Jazz was making with his actions hadn't been intended for human kind, but rather for his own. For the Autobots? If so… Jazz had spent more time in Prowl's company than any other in the week before his death. How could the message be meant for anyone but him?

Did Jazz mean him to show him the nature of futility? To drive him to despair? Prowl keened softly, his faith in the Autobot cause and their ultimate victory shaken in defiance of all logic. What could Jazz have known that conflicted with all Prowl's tactical projections and every hint of moral programming? Memory files played through Prowl's processor, of their last conversation and Jazz's brilliant smile. Even now he could see no hint of what was going through the mech's mind, and no sign Jazz would rather face deactivation than endure the life they led.

Had he really failed his friend so badly?

He forced himself to raise his helm, arms on the table still supporting his frame. He still couldn't make sense of this, and he would, he was sure, if the saboteur had intended him to. Jazz knew better than anyone how Prowl's processor worked.

A message for the Decepticons then? They'd take nothing from this other than pleasure and renewed hope.

Not for the first time, Prowl was driven back to his initial conclusion. There had to be more data he was still missing, data that would somehow untangle this whole senseless mess, and if it wasn't to be found on the Ark, then… the Nemesis?

The infiltration plan Prowl had been working on when… when Prime came looking, had never been more than half-formed. He pulled it from his memory banks now and set to work, processor set on getting in to Megatron's sunken battlecruiser.

Either the Decepticons knew what had driven Jazz to his death, or Prowl would discover that the failure was his alone. Either way he'd know the truth. Either way he wasn't much interested in what happened next.

"Prowl?" He looked up in his surprise, startled to see Prime at his door and to realise how long he'd been working. Prime's optics were steady, non-judgemental, but Prowl read concern in his leader's stance. "I believe your shift ended some time ago."

Prowl's door-wings slumped against his back, low charge dimming his optics. Even so, he felt a shiver of satisfaction. He checked his probability matrix once more, before disconnecting from the datapad he held and offering it to his Prime.

"Sir, I have a proposal for you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Mirage hesitated for a long time before fading into view. He stood in the half-open doorway of Optimus's office and watched his Prime work steadily through a load that would break a lesser mech.

The Prime was weary and, believing himself alone, showed it. His exhaustion was more than simply physical. Broad red shoulders bowed under a weight Mirage couldn't imagine.

The spy had let his leader's voice coax him from the ruins of his beloved Towers. He'd followed the mech onto more battlefields than he could remember, walked into the jaws of death on Prime's orders and never doubted that the cost was worth it. Optimus Prime's unshakeable belief in their cause was the foundation on which each Autobot built their own. Mirage had never had cause to question that belief. Seeing Optimus, optics dim, half-slouched across a cluttered desk and staring at a single document for long breems, was more unsettling than former noble would have guessed.

Prime straightened, his attention snapping to the door as Mirage faded into view. His optics glowed a little brighter, but Mirage's Ops scanners betrayed the secondary systems Optimus shunted offline to power the illusion of alertness. The spy didn't call him on it. Half the Ark's crew was still getting overenergised in their down-time. Others seem to be sunk in a depression that could only be attributed in part to energon hangovers. Even those determined to shake off the grim atmosphere had a frenetic air about them. Everyone was adjusting in their own way. Prime had a right to that same grief.

"Sir?" Mirage couldn't keep a tentative note out of his voice as he stepped into the room. He straightened his back-struts and let his Towers accent strengthen to cover his unease. "You asked to see me."

"Come in. Sit down."

He obeyed the abrupt commands without a sound, and no more than a murmur of dismay escaped him when Optimus stood to bring them both energon from his dispenser. Old programming insisted that Mirage ought to be serving his Prime, or even that servants should serve them both. His vorns in the Autobots, not to mention long conversations with Prime and Jazz, kept him in his seat, and put a courteous half-smile on his face as he thanked his Prime for the glowing cube.

He sipped at it, automatic analysers testing the blend even here. The mid-grade registered as bland and tasteless to systems that had once sampled the finest high-grades. He dismissed the redundant report. The relevant facts – safe, with no sign of poison or tampering – would have to be enough.

Optimus Prime settled back into his seat. The larger mech played with his own cube, translucent case and luminous fluid visible between his broad finger-servos as he twisted it back and forth. Reaching out with the other hand, he pushed a datapad across the table, manoeuvring it between piles of its fellows.

"Read this. I want your honest assessment."

Intrigued, Mirage took the 'pad. Thumbing it on, he blinked at the mission proposal markers. This was a surprise. He'd more than half expected that Prime's unease portended the promotion he was resigned to, if dreading. He hadn't reckoned on being presented with a new field assignment. Sipping again at his cube, he took a few klicks to build the encrypted firewalls this security level required. Nodding in satisfaction, he set his cube on the desk in front of him, and settled down to do as he was told.

Three breems later, putting the 'pad down and feeling the fresh energon churn in his tank, he wished Prime had just promoted him.

"Well?" Optimus Prime's optics were a little brighter now, and his inscrutable expression gave Mirage no cues to follow. The spy let the datapad fall to the desk top with a clatter that rang far too loud through the silent office. He looked at it, torn between admiration and distaste.

"You wish to know what I truly think?" Hard to gauge whether Prime's nod meant that in truth, or whether he merely assumed it was what he wanted. Mirage vented a near-silent sigh; Prime would have to be told either way. "I think Prowl is trying to get himself killed."

It wasn't entirely a surprise. Mirage saw that at once. Optimus must have wondered and worried, even if he had no grounds for his suspicion.

"I feared as much." Prime's optics shuttered momentarily, his vents pausing and resetting. "It wouldn't work then?"

"I did not say that." Now it was Mirage's turn to cycle his optics, his systems dragging as if Prime's weariness were catching. He waved a hand at the datapad. "It is a work of genius. A plan I'd never have thought of in a thousand vorns." If nothing else, it told Mirage just how much their tactician had learnt from Jazz over their long acquaintance. This proposal for infiltrating the Nemesis read more like something the Chief Tactical Officer and Head of Special Ops might thrash out together than something Mirage expected from Prowl alone. The reckless creativity of it was breathtaking.

He reached out, tapping the screen until he brought up a tactical projection. He studied it with cool blue optics. "It would take both Bumblebee and me to run an infiltration and distraction scheme this complex. If we do though… the chances of uncovering Megatron's latest schemes and returning with the data are likely as high as the mission proposal quotes."

Prime leaned across the desk, his forearms resting on its surface, his optics locked on his master spy. "But…?" he pressed.

"But it requires someone with data processing and hacking skills beyond mine or 'Bee's." As a spy, Mirage had always focussed more on observing mechs than mining data. Bumblebee's strength lay in scouting. Both were competent hackers, but up to taking on Soundwave directly… no. Once again, Mirage grieved for Jazz's absence. "I am only aware of two mechs on the crew that meet the specs for this: Red Alert and Prowl."

Prime hummed, optics thoughtful. "And while Red Alert is valuable in his own role…"

"For this job, Bumblebee and I would have to take Prowl. We could get him in past the Nemesis's defences, and get him in place, but the chances of getting him out again without discovery…" Mirage's voice trailed off. He gave a helpless shrug, feeling the weight of Optimus's pained gaze. "It's there in the specifications if you know what to look for. The mission success is predicated on the assumption that three mechs will break in." He had to look away, unable to take the knowing expression in Prime's optics. "And that two will return with the information."

"Unacceptable."

Mirage's first instinct was to agree without question. His second instinct, the one that had been sparked when the Towers fell, and kept him alive through half a lifetime in Special Ops, said 'wait'.

"How much do we need this information?"

Prime's response to his spy's calm question was a look of sheer disbelief.

Mirage tapped the datapad with one slender finger.

"Primary objective: Identify and retrieve files relating to current Decepticon strategy. Secondary objective: determine current whereabouts and activities of Starscream. Tertiary objective: search Decepticon records – official and private – for any record of Autobot Jazz."

Prime's optics cycled, and he frowned at the datapad, reviewing its contents. All the information had been there, albeit phrased with enough care that the obliquity had to be deliberate. Prime had depended on his second and third as interpreters and advisors for too long. It took an Ops-trained eye to see just how much Prowl could hide in plain sight.

Mirage hesitated. Prime had no way of knowing what he and Bumblebee had done. At the same time, the spy couldn't pretend complete ignorance. He tilted his helm to one side, his sombre expression warning Prime of the difficult question he had to ask. "Optimus, how did Jazz die?"

Optimus Prime wouldn't meet his optics. "Would knowing for certain help?"

Mirage vented a sigh, shaking his helm. "Prowl evidently believes the Decepticons were involved."

That got another, deeper frown.

"It is not an uncommon belief," Mirage pressed.

"Prowl is searching for a truth I fear may not exist. He will not find it on the Nemesis." Prime vented hard, servos coming up to rest on his brow, just beneath his finials. "I do not know how long I can allow unjust assumptions to persist. Paranoia cannot be allowed to destroy us." His hand dropped away, his fists clenching by his side. "Whatever the hand that extinguished him, it was this war that killed Jazz, and for that Megatron and I must share the blame."

"No." Mirage had never said that word to his Prime before. Not like this: firm and certain and more than a little angry. He stood abruptly, pacing. "Do not take this upon yourself, Optimus. I've seen what that did to Jazz." He paused, doubt wavering in his processor for a few klicks. Anger and concern drowned out the small voice of uncertainty and he waved a hand at the datapad as he finished his thought. "What it's doing to Prowl. This is not your fault! You cannot seek penance for Megatron's sins, or beg forgiveness for doing only what you know to be just. Or would you dishonour the fallen who've fought for your cause? Do you think Primus would look any more kindly on a Prime who stood by and watched the Decepticon shadow spread? Do not lie to yourself, Optimus. No mech is blameless in this war, but nor can any bear the weight of it alone."

The spy blinked, surprised at his own passion. Light flared in Optimus's optics, and Mirage could only thank Primus for lending him the words his Prime needed to hear. He felt drained, as if he had taken on the exhaustion now lifting from Prime's shoulders. It was a burden he'd gladly accept. Prime met his optics and nodded slowly, recognising the curious intimacy of the moment. His engine rumbled as he studied his spy.

"Mirage? You have something more to say?"

It was an invitation to speak his mind – perhaps the only time he'd ever feel comfortable doing so in this company. Still on his feet, Mirage nodded towards the datapad. His expression, he kept deliberately blank.

"That scheme… it's the best I've seen for a long while. It would work. There is a price to pay, but it could put us ahead of the Decepticons' plans for vorns. It won't win us the war, but it might save tens of thousands of human lives, not to mention some of our own. If Prowl's right and someone on the Nemesis truly drove Jazz to this, it could bring us justice too." He paused, looking up at his Prime with sorrow on his faceplates. "If he's wrong… I fear we'll have lost our second-in-command either way."

"Unacceptable," Prime repeated, more quietly this time. "Find me a plan that will work, Mirage. One that won't cost more than I can afford."

It was an impossible command. If infiltrating the Decepticons' headquarters were that easy, this war would have been over within short vorns. Even so, Mirage nodded. This war had cost him almost everything he cared about, the loss of his friend and Ops mentor only the latest blow. He wouldn't let it take anything more.

* * *

Dirt and shrapnel flew, stinging against his plating like the patter of acid rain.

"Frag!"

Rumble ducked behind a human outbuilding with a yelped profanity, arm clutched to his chestplates. He tried to shake the noise and chaos out of his processor, dazed by how quickly this situation had spiralled out of control.

He'd kind of expected the skirmish. Sure, the Ark seemed to be slacking off on patrols over the last couple of days, but Autobots had an annoying habit of turning up whenever Decepticons went 'shopping' for energon. Usually though, the 'bots would just fire a few desultory shots, more interested in driving them off before any of their precious squishies got hurt than injuring the 'Cons themselves.

_Rumble: report._

The thought wasn't his own. Rumble grimaced, flexing his arm and checking the charge on his blaster.

_Still here, Boss. Still reckon the 'bots are too busy to notice a raid?_

If Soundwave objected to his cassette's snippy tone, there was no sign in his mental voice.

_Autobots: deeply disturbed._

_Got that right._

The full-sized battle squad that had turned up to drive Soundwave, Astrotrain and the cassettes from the oil well were more 'murderously insane' than merely 'disturbed'. They seemed to have lost the plot entirely – instead of warning shots and distractions, every blast was on target and at full strength.

The cassette had seen fury on the faces of Autobots before. It was just that he usually had a vague idea why.

"Decepticons: withdraw."

"Well, finally!" Rumble answered Soundwave's shouted order aloud, swinging around the outbuilding and trying to get a line-of-sight on his host. The red and yellow legs that filled his view instead were less welcome.

"Going somewhere, 'Con?"

For a moment, Rumble assumed it was Sunstreaker who'd spoken. It was a shock to realise those cold tones came from Sideswipe instead. A black hand closed around Rumble's waist, fist clenched tight enough to make the cassette's plating creak and burst the energon lines beneath.

Sunstreaker towered over him, a sneer painted across his handsome face-plates. Reaching out, the warrior ran a finger over the cassette's helm, trailing it down through the energon that seeped from Rumble's seams and between Sideswipe's finger-servos. "Looks like you're coming out of this raid with a net loss."

Rumble's vocaliser echoed with pain-filled static. His arms were pinned to his sides, his pile-drivers useless. He managed to force a grin onto his faceplates nonetheless. The whole situation was weird. This icy fury, coming from twins that usually laughed their way through the heat of battle, was truly unsettling.

"Hey, a mech's got a right to keep himself functioning," he ventured. "Didn't know you guys were so attached to the squishies here."

Sideswipe's fist tightened, wrenching a cry of pain from Rumble. He cried out again, the release of pressure almost as painful, as Sunstreaker plucked him from his brother's grip. Blue optics had never held so much malice. Rumble dangled in front of the warrior's snarling denta and, for a wild moment, the cassette was sure they'd close around him.

"This isn't about the _humans_, 'Con. This is for _Jazz_."

Rumble blinked, quickly reprocessing his memories of the battle. The saboteur hadn't even been there, but then nor were the 'bots Praxian tactician or the Prime. If they had been, Rumble wouldn't be quite so terrified for his own plating.

"Uh…?"

Sunstreaker shook him, hard. "Did you think we'd let you get away with it?"

"Get away with _what_?" Rumble's vents stuttered, his intakes struggling against the shaking. "This about Shockwave and the Seekers? I don't fragging _know_ what they're up to!"

_Rumble: transform_

The order spoke directly to his transformation sequence. He folded down without another thought, slipping between the front-liner's large fingers only to land securely in a dark blue hand.

He was already sliding into the Boss's chest compartment when Soundwave's weapon fired point-blank, downing both Autobot warriors. There was no time to savour the victory. Rumble could feel his fellow cassettes around him, more than one of them nursing injuries of their own. Soundwave's scorched plating was a nagging pain in the back of all their minds and Astrotrain's thrusters smoked when the shuttle swung around to pick them up.

Rumble was still leaking, still hurting. He pinged Soundwave with the strange conversation regardless, feeling a grim acknowledgement before his host's steady spark lulled him into recharge.

* * *

"Was it Shockwave?"

Ratchet blinked, gently removing the yellow servos that had wrapped themselves around his wrist.

"Lie still, Sunstreaker. You and Sides are going to be my guests for a day or two." It was easy to put a snarl in his voice… easy now that the twins were finally stable. "Don't start it by annoying me."

The hand fell away, sedative programming reasserting its hold. Ratchet had to lean over the supine front-liner to hear his mutters.

"Shockwave and the Seekers… was it them? Gonna make them pay…"

Sunstreaker's optics faded to darkness, and Ratchet tucked the limp hand back against the warrior's side. Venting a sigh, he scanned the medical monitors and looked over Sideswipe's for good measure. Both twins would be fine given a few joors under his expert care. According to Ironhide, it could have been a lot worse. Soundwave had been too busy recovering his cassette to aim or fire with any care. Ratchet knew that protective instinct well. He felt it for all his charges, and some more than others.

Ironhide was already hearing from Prime for letting that counterattack get so out of hand. Ratchet would save his own scolding until both twins were healed and online, but there would certainly be one.

He cast a steely optic over the recharging twins, making one more check before ramping up the sedative a little. He didn't need any more distractions. He had other work to do and he'd put it off too long already.

Making a Final Report on a mech under his care was never easy. He'd never faced one quite as hard as this though. As Sunstreaker had declared for the whole crew to hear, this was Earth, and no-one and nothing was quite the same as it had been on Cybertron.

The lights in the treatment room came up as he entered, casting the frame within into sharp relief. Venting a deep sigh, Ratchet sent the command to open Jazz's grey chest-plates and set to work.

* * *

Denial was only to be expected. Optimus Prime had seen enough offlinings, in battle and out of it, to realise that. Half his officer corps, if not more, were clinging to the emotion. He'd seen it on Ironhide's face when they brought Jazz home. On Red Alert's in the security office. He'd seen it time and again as he passed through the Rec Room over the last few days, or helped over-charged mechs back to their rooms.

He didn't expect to encounter it here, from the medic charged with Jazz's final evaluation and with his friend's empty frame lying between them.

"Clarify."

Prowl was taking this better than Prime would have expected… or maybe not. The tactician's façade of calm had done a lot to reassure the crew after his initial wobble. Optimus suspected that the mech was even fooling himself with his careful attention to routine, his research and rationalisations. Despite his attempts to shield the tactician, and even without his conversation with Mirage, the Prime would have been far less convinced that his friend was coping with their loss. The mech stood in front of Jazz's frame, intent optics locked on Ratchet, door-wings held high and rigid, his tone brittle.

Optimus Prime should have listened to his instincts when Ratchet summoned them both to medbay and ordered Prowl to stay behind. His second should be on the command deck, not listening to this.

"Ratchet, Prowl has other things to do. Perhaps you and I should discuss this…"

"No."

"I will remain."

The two refusals overlapped, cutting off Prime's attempt at damage control. Prowl spread his door-wings a little wider, anger smouldering in his optics as he turned back to Ratchet.

"Explain your statement. Immediately."

"Jazz didn't destroy himself," Ratchet repeated. There was an odd animation to the medic as he paced alongside Jazz's berth, throwing frequent glances back at the frame. He stopped, level with the frame's chest-plates, reaching out to spread the open armour a little more widely. Optimus glanced away, respecting a modesty Jazz no longer required.

"I've seen inside a good two-thirds of this crew, but there aren't many I'd recognise from their spark chamber alone. Sunny and Sides. Ironhide. Prowl." Ratchet paused and Optimus shifted uncomfortably. The medic was naming those whose spark chambers carried scars, each one a near-death earned in their Prime's service. Ratchet looked up, optics locked with Prowl's. "Jazz." He waved a hand at the berth between them. "This isn't Jazz."

Prowl's optics flickered. Optimus felt his own systems hiccup in shock. Ratchet didn't seem to notice.

"It's Jazz's frame sure enough, and the spark chamber is a generic that's right for his model, but I've had this mech under my servos often enough to know what I'm looking at and _that_…" he poked at the ruined spark chamber, "Is. Not_._ Jazz."

"He's still online?" Prowl voiced the question before Prime could. Ratchet's tense posture slumped a little.

"I don't know that," he admitted. "I'm telling you someone swapped his spark chamber out from his frame, carefully enough that any medic but me would have been fooled by the double. Especially after…" He waved a hand at the damaged chestplates.

"Bumblebee and Mirage were inspecting his servos when I caught them here." Prowl's outward demeanour didn't change, but his voice was shaky.

Prime and Ratchet both blinked, and not just at the non sequitur. A shared look confirmed that neither has been aware until that moment of the other Ops mechs visiting their commander's frame. Shaking his helm, Ratchet reached out, taking hold of the servos he hadn't had time or will to examine before now. "I see it. These marks… he wasn't damaged elsewhere so I didn't check… It might be nothing, but… his hand could have been forced." Ratchet sighed. "It's not hard to arrange an empty frame, or wrap a limp finger-servo around a trigger before pulling it. Someone wanted us to believe... But Jazz had already been taken when the shot was fired." He huffed air through his vents, looking ill. "What happened to his own chamber, though, and the whether the spark inside survived…?"

"How?" Prowl demanded, a flick of his door-wings expanding his question to encompass the whole situation.

"Skywarp." Red Alert's demand rang in Prime's ears, and he spoke without thinking. He hadn't shared Red's speculation with Prowl, not wanting to compound his second's turmoil with fantasies born of his junior officer's grief. Now he ran a hand over his battle-mask, optics distant. "Red Alert already believes he teleported into the blind spot." He frowned, running through the same thought process he'd already been over with his security director. "Jazz has handled Seekers before without a problem, Skywarp included."

Prowl looked in his direction, door-wings lifting to a sharp peak. Prime could see the processor working behind over-bright optics "Any mech can be caught unawares. Starscream armed his trine with null-rays; given the element of surprise, they could have been sufficient to neutralise even Jazz."

"Skywarp couldn't have planned this." Prime was sure of that.

Ratchet snorted, waving a hand at the grey torso. "He sure couldn't have done that kind of surgery."

Now Prowl was the one pacing. His arms were folded across his bumper, his frown obvious. "Starscream has been absent from battle for some time. Has he been planning…?" He shook his helm, sharply, as if he could dislodge a stray logic process. "This doesn't fit his methodology. We're missing something… something important!"

Optimus Prime moved a little closer to his second, concerned by the open emotion there to be seen. Ratchet moved a step too, before stopping in his paces, his optics blinking through a reboot. He waved a vague hand back towards the repair bay's main ward.

"I wonder… Shockwave? Sunny mentioned…"

"Shockwave? Here on Earth?" Prowl froze, his door-wings vibrating. For a few seconds, Prime was afraid his second had glitched for the second time in under an orn. Then Prowl spun on the spot, optics bright, and raised a hand to point at Jazz's helm.

"Open it."

Ratchet moved to obey, but couldn't hide his concern. "Prowl?"

"Jazz's personality components." Prowl leaned forward, looking for himself as the helm panels opened. "His core access chip and memory crystals," he demanded, "are they there?"

"Give me a moment." Ratchet reached into the delicate circuitry, subspacing a slender tool to probe, and then to nudge free a small, cloudy crystal. Prime felt the tickle of the medic's scanners nearby, before Ratchet took the memory node between his servos and held it up to the light. He slumped, his jaw hanging loose in disbelief. Servos came up to massage dimmed optics.

"Well, Pit." There was silence as Prime and Prowl both waited for Ratchet to recover himself. The medic's tanks rumbled, unsettled, and his voice was streaked with static. He cleared his vocaliser with a whirring click. "These aren't the original components. This memory crystal is flawed. It could never have been used by a functioning mech."

Prowl nodded, faceplates grim. "Shockwave would not waste a valuable resource on this if he had useless components available."

"I'd never have scanned it," Ratchet agreed slowly. "A mech's personality components are quantum locked to his spark, without it, they're just crystals like any other."

"Except these aren't Jazz's memory crystals." Prowl frowned, crossing his arms. "And that's not his spark chamber. Everything he is, everything he knows, is gone. Taken." His optics dimmed, his door-wings dropping into what Optimus recognised as his 'thinking' stance. Prime could almost hear the battle computer cycling up to full speed. The tactician looked up. "There were rumours… back on Cybertron, when the Combaticons disappeared."

"Thought Megatron had those lunatics offlined," Ratchet scowled.

"They were rebellious, but useful." Prowl tilted his helm, thoughtful optics still on Jazz's frame. "And Shockwave doesn't waste a valuable resource."

Prime frowned, a seldom accessed memory file replaying. "Special Ops picked up rumours, something about Shockwave keeping them in a prison?"

"Storage. Not prison." Prowl's voice was cold. "Jazz heard 'Cons whispering about some kind of storage for mechs Megatron saw as… inconvenient, but might yet find of use as more than cannon fodder. But not for the whole mech."

Ratchet huffed through his vents. "What the frag does that mean?"

Prowl shrugged. "Most of the Decepticons didn't know. The rumours were enough to keep them well behaved. Jazz was still trying to get close to someone who might have solid information when we left on the Ark." The tactician looked up, his engine rumbled queasily and his door-wings trembled. "If Shockwave is on Earth now… I'm very much afraid Jazz has learned the truth behind those rumours."

Prime shuddered, his engine echoing Prowl's.

Part of him wanted to rejoice, thanking Primus for the mere possibility that his friend might be alive. The other part looked down at the empty frame and thought of Jazz's fragile spark and personality components, unprotected by a mech's armour, naked without Jazz's complex processor and elaborate firewalls.

Cold fear closed around his spark.

He straightened, Matrix burning bright within him, optics ablaze with a fury that would give even his erstwhile brother pause. "Ratchet, find Mirage and Bumblebee. I'll call Ironhide and Red Alert. Prowl..."

His second in command nodded, optics already bright as his tactical processor shifted into maximum output mode. "Effective communication has been lacking," Prowl agreed. "We need to coordinate and pool our information." His servos clenched into fists, determination written through his frame. "And then, I believe, I will have some serious thinking to do."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The large mech cowered on the ground in front of the throne, plating dented and faceplate downcast in submission. It was, Soundwave mused, a familiar sight.

On the throne beside him, Megatron snarled, as much in rejection of his own, similar thought as in response to Shockwave's obeisance. Soundwave could perceive the patterns passing through the warlord's processor. Lord Megatron would never admit to a certain nostalgia, or the momentary glitch that placed an image of vivid red and white wings before his optics rather than dull purple plating.

The telepath considered the overheard thought, wondering whether it was time to arrange for Starscream's return. Megatron seemed ready for it, and for all his arrogance, Starscream was a good bit more predictable and easier to manipulate than the purple-clad Cybertronian who'd replaced him. Shockwave was too skilled at resisting Soundwave's probes, too much a blank slate for comfort. Already, the telepath's ignorance of Shockwave's plotting had almost cost him dear.

Soundwave resisted the urge to vent a sigh, sending a wave of comfort and reassurance through his resting cassettes. His preferences didn't matter here. Only one voice held any weight in this throne room. Only one mech's will would prevail.

Megatron leaned forward in his throne. His red optics burned with anger and impatience, but his voice was a level growl.

"You promised me results, Shockwave. You promised me all the Autobots' secrets in my servos."

"I stand by my words, Lord Megatron." The Decepticon commander of Cybertron would never whimper, Soundwave gave him that much credit. His refined accent stopped his voice short of begging but, even with his thoughts concealed from view, a note of desperation ran through his obsequious tone. "I ask your indulgence only a little longer."

Megatron's helm set his features in a permanent scowl. Now the line of his lips and the fire in his optics turned the expression from intimidating to truly threatening. Shockwave might be a blank slate, but Megatron was an open book – his rudimentary defences against telepathy useless when set against his deep familiarity to his communications officer. Soundwave scarcely needed to listen to his Lord, to know that he was fuming. The dictator had shot Starscream for shorter delays than this. The audacity of the Seeker's plans had never been an excuse. Decepticons delivered or they paid the price. Shockwave was no exception to that rule, and the mono-opticed mech knew it.

"Already the Autobots are shaken, demoralised and irrational - as I intended." Shockwave paused, glancing in Soundwave's direction when the cassette host took a step forward, fists clenched. Megatron glared at them both, raising a hand to still his angry communications officer and beckoning for the grovelling lieutenant to continue. Shockwave lowered his helm. "My Lord, I am ever your obedient servant. Have I not served you loyally through all the long vorns, holding true to my Lord and his cause? Have I not fought the Autobots on Cybertron – "

"Pah!" Megatron cut through the recitation with the wave of one hand. "Dregs! Empties! Do not compare those pitiful remnants with the warriors under Prime's command." He frowned and his finger-servos rapped out a harsh rhythm against the arms of his throne. The enemy was underestimated at their peril… as Shockwave was learning.

Soundwave shifted from his frozen stance. The movement drew Megatron's attention, and he half-turned to see his lieutenant gazing thoughtfully between the protagonists in this familiar drama. Soundwave frowned behind his blast-mask. With Rumble's report cycling through his processor, he took a chance.

"Autobot Jazz: formidable adversary."

Shockwave hissed, his mask of submission faltering for a moment as his single optic flicked up to meet his rival's visor. After his long efforts to keep all but his leader ignorant of his activities, the mech's frustration was unsurprising.

Where Shockwave fumed, Megatron smirked. Cybertron's long-term commander might not recognise Soundwave taking a shot in the dark, but the warlord knew his lieutenant better. Soundwave was pressing for information and pressing hard. The dark blue telepath's demeanour didn't change, but one hand rose until servo-tips rested on his chest compartment. He never pretended to be as stoic as his voice suggested. He could be volatile when his cassettes were injured, and after the debacle at the generator plant, he would have his answers. Here and now, very few secrets were safe on the Nemesis. Breaking Shockwave's was only the first and most satisfying step.

It wasn't possible for a featureless faceplate to scowl. Shockwave's anger was written through his body language and in the flare of spark-resonant emotion that escaped through his interference algorithms.

"The Autobot will yield his secrets! Nonetheless," he conceded with obvious reluctance, "he continues to resist. Such spark-deep strength of will is… unexpected."

"Jazz: third in command, Head of Special Operations." There was a certain smugness to Soundwave's drone and Megatron stifled a harsh laugh, amused by the sniping between his subordinates. Soundwave folded his arms across his chest. "Resistance to torture: unsurprising. Interrogation plan: flawed."

The reaction to his assertion was unexpected. Shockwave seemed, if anything, satisfied. Megatron was uneasy, the uncharacteristic doubts Soundwave had sensed since Shockwave's arrival coalescing and escaping the warlord's firewalls. For the first time, Soundwave saw an image of a metal box, of a naked spark chamber and the small cluster of crystalline personality components mounted beside it. A choked cry escaped him, part-horror and part-revulsion.

He didn't care for his Autobot counterpart. He'd lost companions and suffered more injuries than he could count at the hands of the saboteur. Twice, those losses had come at a price to the Autobot too; Soundwave had presided over capture and interrogation of his own, and knew better than most the strength that lay at Jazz's core. He'd happily extinguish the mech on the battlefield, with respect and the honour at the heart of the Decepticon cause. But to see that bold warrior's spark so exposed…?

The confused thoughts of his cassettes clamoured for an explanation of his turbulent emotions, Rumble's touch still tinged with pain. Soundwave stilled them with a silent order, letting no other hint of his dismay show beyond a brief flare of his visor.

Shockwave's anger faded into a cold pleasure, evidently guessing what Soundwave had overheard. The purple mech still knelt before his Lord's throne, but his optic was on the telepath.

"On the contrary, Soundwave, my strategy is extremely effective."

Soundwave forced down his anger and disgust, red visor turning towards their angry leader. "The evidence suggests otherwise."

Shockwave growled at him, glancing up at Megatron before lowering his single optic. "The Autobot _will_ yield. I will force his spark to stabilise and decode his memory storage crystals, to read at my leisure." He glanced up again as their warlord shifted on his throne. "I refer, of course, to _your_ leisure, my Lord. Please, I only ask for a short time longer…"

Megatron frowned, his expression dissatisfied but his optics bright with avarice. "Do not fail me." Shockwave's back-struts stiffened with relief, and Soundwave's with disappointment. Neither mech made a sound. "I expect results, Shockwave, not excuses," Megatron warned. A slender grey hand waved in dismissal, before arresting his subordinate's movement with a single sharp gesture. "My patience is not inexhaustible, Shockwave. Test it much further and I will end this… abomination once and for all."

Shockwave nodded, fleeing before Lord Megatron could change his mind. Soundwave's exit was more graceful but very nearly as rapid. He reached out as he stalked the halls, summoning the absent cassettes back to his side. Letting them roam a base where the purple scientist worked without restraint was no longer an option.

* * *

The call to battle stations was not unusual. To arrive in the control room to find Teletraan-I quiet and the airwaves free of distress calls – human or Autobot – well, that was. The mechs of the Ark's crew milled around, their officers waiting until all were assembled before speaking. The lack of urgency was telling. Excitement rose between the mechs like something tangible and infectious. Sunstreaker crossed his arms, scowling to stop his own from showing.

If they weren't responding to an urgent call for help, then they were initiating something themselves. That had happened far too slagging rarely since they reached Earth in Sunstreaker's opinion. Sure, he understood the officers' reluctance to go on the offensive. It was hard even to take a step on this world without stepping on a native organic. Every battle risked more collateral damage than even Sunny could swallow. That didn't mean he had to like the situation.

That Optimus Prime was prepared to take such a risk now said louder than words what Jazz had meant to him.

_~Too slagging right~ _

Sideswipe's thought came sharp through the bond between the twins. His brother's optics followed Sunstreaker's, and he could feel the anger, pain and excitement spilling from Sides' spark in equal measure. The red warrior was bouncing on his pedes, his weapon already in his hand as he anticipated the clash ahead. Sunny echoed his brother's roiling emotions, but beneath them a shiver of concern was starting to grow. The yellow-clad twin would deny it if asked, and fight anyone who so much as suggested it, but he knew his brother wasn't dealing well.

He wasn't the only one. Prime's masked face showed nothing, but Ironhide looked grim, and Ratchet's scowl was deeper than Sunstreaker had seen it since Sideswipe was last laid out on the medic's table. If anything, the two officers looked more sombre even than they had in the Rec Room over the last few days. Perhaps the comfort they'd taken in sharing their memories and stories of Jazz had drained away with the high-grade. Or maybe prospect of battle was simply bringing the gap in their ranks home to them.

Sunstreaker shuttered his optics as the extent of their loss struck him once again, and ricocheted through him to make Sideswipe gasp. Anger and disbelief still dominated over the grief for them both. Jazz was more than a well-respected commanding officer to the twins. He had been Sideswipe's partner in crime almost since they arrived in Prime's unit, a friend to them both without agenda or expectation. They'd lost comrades before, sure, but the twins picked their friends carefully; losing one now hurt more than they'd ever expected. Jazz was one of the most dangerous mechs in the Ark – one of the few even Sunny wouldn't pick a fight with. He shouldn't have gone so quickly or so quietly. He shouldn't have died alone, and he sure as slag wouldn't have expected his death to be hushed up, leaving the twins frustrated and wondering, each scenario they imagined worse than the last.

Sunstreaker's art was a well-hidden secret, and Sideswipe always made his pranking seem effortless, but the imagination that lay behind both was far too vivid for comfort.

Sideswipe growled, the subsonic note rumbling through his twin brother's armour. Some of the mechs in the room shifted, instinct making them uneasy, and the empty area around the twins spread a little wider. Even Prowl glanced in their direction, his faceplates impassive but his door-wings held high and tense. Cursing the reversal, Sunstreaker caught his brother's arm, holding tight and pouring every calming thought he could muster into their bond.

The twins were used to hitting the front of battle with wild abandon, allowing their violent emotions free rein. They couldn't afford that today. Jazz had been one of the officers who taught Sunstreaker that his smouldering anger could be a weapon for him to shape and wield. The blind fury and desire for revenge that spilled off Sideswipe now, and came close to overwhelming Sunny himself at times, was too powerful to be controlled like that. It could get them both killed.

_~Not going to happen~ _

Sunstreaker nodded in response to his twin's curt assertion. At the least it meant that his brother was still thinking coherent thoughts, and that was more than he'd suspected a half-breem before.

Sideswipe rocked back on his pedes, his shoulder nudging his brother's chest-plate. It was a gesture Sunstreaker was more accustomed to giving than receiving, a reminder of the promise they'd made to each other back in the gladiator pits: if any sparks were going to pay the price for their screwed up lives, it wasn't going to be theirs.

Sideswipe banked his emotions, stilling the spillover into his twin. Sunstreaker didn't relax, he knew his brother too well for that, but he took the hint. His restless optics roved the room, his own battle-urge rising as the need to balance out Sideswipe's faded.

The crew were restless, the temperature rising as weapon systems warmed and mechs fumed quietly amidst the crowd. Every mech aboard had to be here. Or at least Sunstreaker assumed so until his automatic scan of the room for his brother's horribly-clashing minibot came up empty. A moment later, he realised Mirage was missing too, although the arrogant spy could be standing at his shoulder smirking at him for all Sunstreaker knew.

He was still frowning over the curious absences when Prime stepped forward. At least Optimus spared them the speeches today. His bald statement that they were going to draw the Decepticons out contained no hint of why, or statement of their ultimate goal. He left the crew to fill in the gaps for themselves, but the motive behind this assault was all too easy to guess.

Maybe that's why Prowl's door-wings were twitching with the subtle flicks the twins easily read as disapproval? Perhaps Prowl really was noble enough to censure acts of revenge for Jazz's sake, even if Prime had yielded to temptation. Sunstreaker frowned, errant Ops mechs forgotten as the thought made his tanks roil uneasily. Their second had turned out revised schedules and duty rosters with a stoic façade that had half the crew convinced, but, one buttoned-up mech to another, it was pretty slagging clear that Prowl was beyond devastated. The twins had forced reactions from him too often and across too diverse a range of emotion not to recognise what they saw. Prowl knew Jazz, and what he would want, better than anyone. For him to be the one hesitating now…

Sideswipe's fury scorched his twin from the inside out, and Sunstreaker's fists tightened around thin air as if around a cassette's scrawny neck. Nonetheless, the subtle looks of frustration and outright anger Prowl threw Optimus Prime's way gave them both pause.

_~What the slag?~_ Sideswipe snarled the question through their bond _~Doesn't he want to avenge Jazz?~_

_~'Cause revenge is just such an Autobot thing~_ Uncertainty translated as sarcasm. Sunstreaker forced air through his vents, his thought softer as he went on. _~Can't help noticing 'Bee and Mirage aren't first in the battle line either. Maybe they reckon Jazz wouldn't want it?~_

_~That's the thing, Sunshine. Jazz doesn't get a vote because he _isn't slagging here

There was nothing to say to that. Sunstreaker just glared as Sideswipe put a few steps between them. Then Prime was ordering them to roll out. In the midst of the noise and rapid transformations, no one noticed Sunstreaker sidle closer to their officers, and no one except the front-liner overheard the uncharacteristic, fierce whisper from Prowl to his Prime.

"You should have let me go!"

Prime's response was firm, uncompromising. "You are needed here."

"Sunstreaker, Sideswipe!" Ironhide was taking the roll-call, his voice gruff and harsh where Jazz's had been smooth and melodic. Sunstreaker grunted an acknowledgement, his brother echoing him rather than making his usual cheery response.

Ironhide fixed them with a glare, sending a data-packet of orders their way before moving on. Still reeling from hearing their Prime and his second-in-command so at odds, it was several seconds before Sunstreaker bothered to check them out.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were silent well into the long drive, both mulling over the orders that assigned them as bodyguards, putting them close at their second's side through the battle ahead. Sideswipe's flare of irritation at being taken off the front-line faded almost as quickly as Sunstreaker's own. Prowl's whisper rang over and over through Sunstreaker's processor, echoing into his brother's.

_You should have let me go._

It could have meant many things, and their processors dwelled on the possibilities, and on the constraints their bodyguard role would place upon them in the upcoming skirmish. It wouldn't be a comfortable situation. Sure, they couldn't afford to lose another officer, not so soon, but Sunstreaker couldn't help wondering just who they were meant to protect the tactician from: the Decepticons, or Prowl himself.

* * *

"Cliffjumper, Brawn, Windcharger: relocate two klicks at bearing eight-four degrees. Engage Decepticon forces threatening Wheeljack."

Prowl kept his voice level despite the urgency of his transmission. He didn't wait for an acknowledgement from the minibots before moving on, his optics constantly searching the battlefield for problems and potential solutions.

Away to his left, Optimus Prime was confronting Megatron, as normal. To his right, Wheeljack's position came under renewed threat as Soundwave moved forces to counter Prowl's. The Autobot engineer threw a worried glance in Prowl's direction, before bending back over the experimental device he'd brought from his lab, prodding at it in a way that made even the logical tactician wince.

Wheeljack's presence on the battlefield was always too unpredictable a threat for the Decepticons to overlook. Wheeljack fiddling with a device this large had even his fellow Autobots giving him a wide berth.

In any usual battle Starscream would be buzzing the engineer's position by now, making a scientific assessment of the risk and telling the other Decepticons when it was time to vacate the area – if only by rapidly-fleeing example. In Starscream's absence, that role would have to be taken by…

Prowl's door-wings jerked upwards, quivering with tension as a large, purple-clad mech made his appearance on the battlefield. The Decepticon scientist strode towards Wheeljack's position like the onset of unstoppable doom. Shockwave's single, golden optic slid past the engaged armies with a disdain and dispassion that chilled the energon in Prowl's lines. The mech's gun-former alt mode was all too apparent in his blocky frame. Left to transform, Megatron's lieutenant could unleash a destructive power that rivalled the warlord's own, and unlike Starscream or Soundwave he could not be distracted by threats to others he cared about. It was widely rumoured that not even Megatron himself fell into that category.

To Prowl's knowledge, Autobot forces had lost sixty-nine point four percent of all engagements involving the Decepticon lieutenant, a fair fraction of those under his direction. The tactician should have been cursing the mech's presence and planning withdrawal tactics as a precaution. Instead a fierce smile spread momentarily across his faceplates.

Mirage and Bumblebee would be making their entry into the Decepticon base by now, their access brought within barely acceptable risk levels by the distraction of the Autobots' senseless attack. With even Shockwave drawn into the battle, _lured_ there using Wheeljack as bait, the Ops mechs' chances of a successful ingress had risen to almost seventy percent. It horrified Prowl that, justify it as he might and threats to security and morale not-withstanding, he'd approved a plan with so low a probability of overall success. It angered and disgusted him that Prime had refused to even consider the nearly eight percent statistical boost his own presence on the infiltration squad would have afforded them.

Optimus Prime had repeatedly insisted that Prowl was needed to direct the diversionary battle, and Ironhide and Ratchet had backed him up on that. The fact that the tactician had assigned Sunstreaker and Sideswipe to Ironhide's battle command, only to find them back at his side as bodyguards before the enemy even engaged, strongly suggested his friends had other motives for keeping him in sight.

"Grimlock, Wheeljack is in danger."

The Dinobots' arrival on the field of battle was thunderous to say the least. Shockwave's steady progress faltered, his heavy pedes struggling to find their footing as the earth quaked beneath them. Grimlock led from the front, his monstrous, pseudo-organic alt mode snarling as he closed on the wide-opticed Decepticon scientist.

Prowl shook off Sunstreaker's steadying hand. His door-wings quivered, and not just due to the residual ground tremors. He pushed to his feet, standing above the parapet of the sniper post and reassessing the field in front of him.

Megatron was entirely absorbed by his conflict with Prime, his forces scattered and lacking a strong voice to command them. Soundwave was distracted, Blaster's cassettes and half the mini-bots occupying the casetticons and their host. Shockwave too had other concerns, his roar of anger echoing Grimlock's as the Tyrannosaur's claws slashed through one of his transformation linkages. Wheeljack was already on his way to take cover with Prowl, Bluestreak and the few other long-range fighters, the engineer pausing to pat Snarl's muzzle as he slipped around the angry Dinobots. The other Autobots were holding their own, sufficient depth and strength in their lines to deal with the surprised and unprepared Decepticon army.

Prowl nodded in satisfaction, firing off another dozen orders and provisional orders and then pinging Smokescreen and Trailbreaker with an updated battleplan. Even across the battlefield, he saw his junior tacticians startle, but both were too caught up in individual conflicts to break off now. As he'd planned.

Prime should have listened to him. Prowl had laid out the facts calmly and clearly. The chances of both Bumblebee and Mirage getting inside even a near-deserted base were already too low for comfort. Even if they did, the diversion the other Autobots were providing limited the duration of their stay. Without an information specialist present, the probability that they would be able to locate Jazz, and know what they were seeing when they did, was less than fifty percent. Those odds were far too small given what was at stake.

Over the last week, Prowl had produced schedules and tactical reports with his usual stoic regularity. Even so, without their Head of Special Ops to provide insight and counterarguments, without Jazz to distract him from minutiae and lighten the burden of his work, without his friend badgering him into refuelling and recharge, his efficiency had dropped dramatically. It was all too easy to project the long term impact of their third's absence – on Prowl, on Prime and on the Autobots as a whole.

And the tactician was under no illusions: it was still the likeliest outcome. Their discussions had made it clear that the chances of recovering Jazz - and, even more so, restoring him to health - were slim at best. Prowl had held his grim facade in place throughout, sheltering his fragile glimmer of hope close to his spark rather than letting it show.

That had its consequences. His Prime believed he was self-destructive - that he'd already given up. Nothing the tactician could say or do was likely to change that belief, in the short term at least. The reality though was far simpler. Prowl's priority now was the same as it always had been: first and foremost, the defence of the Autobot cause. He valued his own spark no more and no less than he had an orn before. But nothing, in Prowl's considered opinion, outweighed the importance of finding Jazz and bringing the Ops mech home – not even his own life.

"Prowl?" Sunstreaker was a few steps away, his blaster firing at the few mechs foolish enough to try an assault on the sniper position. Sideswipe stood beyond his brother, still venting hard from his tussle with their last bold attacker. Both watched Prowl with wary suspicion, reading the determined set of Prowl's door-wings as few others could. "Prowl, you need to get back under cover!"

Prowl ignored the instruction, just as he ignored the chaos all around. Weapons fire passed far too close to his vulnerable door-wings, stinging his sensors. Sideswipe swore, firing around his superior as Prowl stood rock still amidst the chaos.

"Be ready."

The roar of the battlefield faded. Prowl's concentration was total as he shouldered his acid-pellet rifle and stilled his vents. There was no question of dividing his attention, of keeping track of the dozens of fighting mechs or even watching for threats to his own spark. As had been the case on only a bare handful of previous occasions, the risk of extinguishing, with its inevitable knock-on effects on the Autobot forces, wasn't the worst outcome possible here. Prowl was determined to do what he must for everyone's sake. That such a goal was in harmony with his own spark's impassioned desire was merely happy coincidence.

His first acid pellet sped past Grimlock's jaws to bury itself in Shockwave's side transformation seam, spilling its corrosive payload across the chest-plates directly above the mech's spark. His rifle snapped skywards and his second and third pellets took out Thundercracker's aileron controls, his fourth penetrating the blue Seeker's left thruster.

Prowl's left leg gave way and he staggered. Dispassionate reports informed him of damage, a painful sting registering regardless of the fact that he'd dialled his system sensors down to bare minimum before taking so exposed a position. Even on minimum, he clearly felt the impact as a yellow-armoured front-liner tackled him full force to the ground.

"Frag it, Prowl!"

Prowl shook him off, tucking his door-wings in tight and rolling clear of Sunstreaker. His servo was already reaching for his fallen rifle as he pointed unerringly at the faltering Seeker.

"Bring him here," he snapped.

There was no time for argument. Already the Seeker was struggling for height, steering away so as to crash clear of the battlefield. That couldn't be allowed. Prowl had done as his Prime asked, and brought the Autobots to the brink of victory, now he was working to a different battleplan.

The twins swore. Sideswipe fired his jet-pack at once. Sunstreaker reached out to give Prowl a shove that tumbled him into a startled Bluestreak, before leaping after his brother.

"Prowl! What are you doing? You're hurt!"

Bluestreak's hand dropped away as if burned by the heat of Prowl's glare. The young gunner shook his helm, snapping his own weapon up and firing at a Decepticon trying to take advantage of their distraction, before scowling back at Prowl. The tactician ignored him. He tried to stand, his left leg once more caving under his weight, but his acid rifle still clutched in his right hand. Bluestreak fired again, his blaster fire clipping Thundercracker's nose as the twins grappled the stricken Seeker in a tight circle through the air.

"Prowl, those shots were amazing, but you can't treat a battle like target practice! It's not safe!" Bluestreak's voice was a background murmur in Prowl's audios as he raised his gun again, focussed attention on the sky above.

Somewhere here… somewhere… There!

The black-and-lavender Seeker appeared from nowhere, screaming with rage and firing on the warriors riding his trine-mate into the ground. Skywarp's screams turned to fear as Thundercracker hit the deck hard, skidding along the rough gravel with a spray of sparks. The fear was replaced in turn. This time his screams rang with pain as Prowl's rifle found his new target's wing-joints, sending Skywarp tumbling ground-ward beside the other jet.

"Wings only!" Prowl snarled, aware of Bluestreak's fire joining his. Blue shot him a hard look, but complied, his aim changing from cockpit to wide-spread wing-tips. It was all Prowl could do to make his servos follow the same instruction. This was the Seeker that had taken Jazz from them – the only tool that had made Shockwave's plan possible. Nothing would please Prowl more than seeing Skywarp's spark-chamber as empty and broken as Jazz's. He suppressed the desire with an effort. He needed Skywarp just as much as Shockwave had, and he needed the mech somewhat intact.

Skywarp transformed as he fell, his pierced and ragged wings folding behind his back, and his optics crazed with pain. A blaster appeared in his new-formed hand. It wavered, the disoriented Seeker searching for a target. Prowl was waiting. He stood, his damaged leg supporting him through force of will alone. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had rolled clear of the crashing Thundercracker and now stood either side of him, the two front-liners both moving forward until they formed a rough diamond with Prowl and the stasis-locked jet at either apex.

Skywarp landed heavily between them. He snarled, still on his thrusters, but just barely, and with his blaster already aimed at Prowl. Sunstreaker's, Sideswipe's and - Prowl was sure - Bluestreak's, aimed from behind him, were firmly fixed on the black Seeker. Prowl's wasn't.

The firing of his acid rifle was loud in the sudden silence that filled their corner of the battlefield. The pop and splatter as it spread its corrosive acid across Thundercracker's armour, just a little to the left of and below his cockpit, was almost drowned by Skywarp's anguished cry.

"Do not teleport. Do not move." Prowl's clipped tones were cold and clinical. He gave no sign of pain as he limped forward a few steps on his damaged leg, ignoring Sideswipe's hissed warning. "Without treatment, that acid will take approximately five point six breems to penetrate your trine-mate's chest armour and reach his spark chamber. If you teleport, or make so much as a move in his direction, my next shot will pierce his transformation seam and disperse below. From this range and angle, such a shot will bring about his inevitable, painful deactivation within half a breem."

Skywarp's blaster wavered. His optics flickered as he stole a worried glance at the unconscious Seeker behind him. "You wouldn't! You're an Autobot!"

"Skywarp." Prowl's level tones dragged the Seeker's optics to his impassive faceplates. Prowl met the frantic look and for once let everything he felt show in his flaring optics. "I know what you have done. I _will_ fire the shot."

The twins stared at him. His wide-splayed door-wings told him Bluestreak was closing the gap behind him too, and detected the gunner's shocked trembling.

The blaster dropped from Skywarp's numbed finger-servos. The mech's voice rose, querulous and frantic. "It wasn't our fault! Screamer's not here! Shockwave…"

"Silence!" Prowl ordered sharply. Bluestreak and the twins didn't need to know what had happened to Jazz. Not here on the field of battle, perhaps not ever. He took another step forward, almost to within the Seeker's arm reach.

Casting one last look past Sideswipe to the battle beyond, Prowl nodded. Maybe he truly had been needed here. Now though, his place was elsewhere. His spark tugged at him with a pull that was almost painful. If Prime refused to accommodate the greatest need, Prowl would make his own arrangements.

"In three breems precisely, if you cooperate, Bluestreak will summon medical assistance for your trine-mate. Sufficient time should remain for Ratchet to save Thundercracker's spark. Any hint of resistance and there will be no such attempt." It was an empty threat. Blue had mostly likely yelled for the medic as soon as Prowl took damage. Even if he hadn't, nothing would stop Ratchet treating his patient the moment he became aware of the downed Seeker. Here and now, faced with the tactician's fury and bracketed by the shocked and angry twins, Skywarp didn't know that.

Prowl took the final step that put him in Skywarp's reach, only peripherally aware of Sunstreaker lunging forward to pull him back. Blue optics met scarlet with steely determination.

"Take me to him," he ordered. "Now!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The Primus-forsaken tactician had lost his fragging processor! Judging by the reaction of his comrades they thought so too. Not that the Auto-wimps would do anything about it. They just kept pointing their weapons at him, as the fragging _insane_ mech made his demands.

Behind Skywarp, Thundercracker whimpered – not aloud, but into the trine-bond. Skywarp clenched his fists, fighting the urge to turn and tear the contaminated armour from his unconscious trine-mate's frame. Even if he made it that far before the Autobots gunned them both down, what if it was too late? What if the acid had already got inside? Hook's idea of 'treatment' for a spark-systems injury was a quick shot to end his patient's torment. Shockwave had made it fairly clear the Seekers had outlived their usefulness too. He wouldn't raise a finger-servo to prevent Hook's 'mercy'.

Skywarp looked into optics that burned like icy coals and knew he had no choice.

His hand snapped out to encircle Prowl's wrist, his denta gritted as he forced his warp generator online, despite the injuries that nearly crippled him. He was screaming with pain even before something threw itself into the warp matrix, twisting space and mass and Skywarp's processor into a tight knot.

The Seeker fell out of his warp, skidding across a corridor floor, dazed by the pain spilling from tattered wings and the ringing in his navigation processor, even before his helm impacted the wall.

"…Ow…" The voice was unfamiliar at first. Then the pained tone vanished into a far more familiar growl. "Prowl? Prowl! If that…"

"Here."

The brief response seemed to reassure. The anxious growl turned into an angry one. "For frag's sake, Sides, shut up! My processor's killing me without you yelling! Let me figure out what the fragging Seeker's got us into…"

"What _I've_ got us into!" Skywarp's optics rebooted with a flare. The Seeker pushed himself to his feet and was across the room, shoving the bright yellow pit-spawn into a wall, before the complaints from his abused systems had time to register. He swayed, not even noticing when Sunstreaker's servos caught his arms to hold him upright. "What _I've_ got us into? You… you just jumped into an active warp matrix! And you're going to complain because it _stings a little_?" Skywarp could hear the tones of his absent trine-mate in his semi-hysterical screech. Where was Screamer when they needed him? "Are you _fragging insane_?"

The Autobot glared at him, the brilliant blue optics seeming to consume all the output from Skywarp's slowly rebooting processor. Then Sunstreaker snorted and released his arms, stepping past the Seeker that crumpled at his feet.

"I think Prowl's got that role sewn up for the day, don't you?"

"Sunstreaker!" Prowl's voice was sharp in rebuke. Skywarp blinked up from his heap on the ground, vaguely wondering when the tactician had got so tall. "That was unwise in the extreme!"

The yellow front-liner crossed his arms across his chest, and slag it if the scowling mech wasn't even _taller_. "Orders to keep you in sight, remember?"

"I'll remember that when next I require such blind devotion to _my_ orders."

Sunstreaker took a step forward, and for a moment, Skywarp half-expected a Decepticon-style knock-down. Then the front-liner backed off a step, his grumble audible but incomprehensible.

"This is wasting time." Prowl's door-wings twitched, and he moved across the room, using a sparking left leg to nudge the dazed Seeker. "Skywarp! Did we reach our destination?"

What, the purple deck plates under Skywarp's cheek-plates weren't a hint? He half-pushed himself up, ready to say as much, when a new voice answered for him.

"I believe so."

Skywarp froze, still on the ground, half-expecting to see the red menace that Sunstreaker had spoken to a moment before. The voice was wrong though and Skywarp blinked in confused incomprehension at the Autobots' pale-blue spy. "How the frag did you get there?"

Of them all, only Prowl seemed unsurprised by the encounter, and they'd already established that the tactician was missing more than a few diodes.

"Mirage, status and location, if you please."

The spy, Mirage, cycled his optics, frowning at his second in command and at the obvious damage to the mech's frame. Shaking his helm, the Ops mech visibly decided to take Prowl's sudden appearance in his stride and ask questions later. He waved a hand vaguely around him as if in illustration. "Nemesis successfully infiltrated. Bumblebee was unable to secure entry and is continuing to divert the few remaining guards on the perimeter." He peered both ways along the corridor they'd landed in, before gesturing at the door in front of them and then glancing down at Skywarp. "As you pointed out before we left, logic suggests that Shockwave may be using Starscream's laboratory in his absence."

Prowl gave Skywarp another nudge with his pede. The tactician didn't look away from the Seeker's red optics, even when Sunstreaker retrieved Prowl's fallen acid-pellet rifle. He just extended his servos in silent demand. If Skywarp was in a mood to give any Autobot credit, the confused yellow front-liner might have got a look-in for hesitating to obey that order, and lost it a moment later when he shrugged and rearmed the crazed mech. Prowl ran a hand down the stock and barrel, door-wings twitching as he scanned the rifle without shifting his gaze from the prone Seeker.

A moment later, Skywarp found himself looking down the barrel of Prowl's rifle, aimed now unflinchingly at his spark, as it had been at Thundercracker's less than a breem before. He'd have liked to say something noble about how this was the better choice, but he was Decepticon enough to admit that it'd be a slagging lie.

"Sunstreaker, I assume you're still in contact with Sideswipe."

"Yes, Prowl."

"Good. Tell him to stand by." Prowl cocked the weapon, his optics still locked with Skywarp's. "I told you to take me to Jazz," he said quietly, ignoring the gasp that came from the twin at his shoulder.

"Screamer's lab!" The half-explanation tumbled from Skywarp's lips, fear for Thundercracker and for himself mingling into a single confused mess. "I can't warp into Screamer's lab! There're shield-thingies." His hands waved vaguely in mid-air, trying to make up for his lack of words. Prowl's stony gaze didn't follow them, wasn't distracted for a moment from the Seeker's optics.

Mirage was the one who frowned, looking at the door. "It's possible. I'll try to get us in." He moved to its control panel, half a breem ticking away as he fiddled with the lock. "This may take more time to hack than we have available, Prowl. We can't afford to have you captured here. You and Sunstreaker should look for a way out before…"

Prowl's door-wings drew up sharply, the Praxian gesture close enough to a Seeker threat display that Skywarp froze. It looked like even the grounders recognised the warning, falling silent and still. Prowl's helm bowed for a long, long moment of thought and Skywarp flinched when those icy optics turned back to him. Prowl's rifle jerked, gesturing for Skywarp to rise.

"Starscream may have taken steps to prevent Skywarp's unexpected appearance inside, but I doubt he'd bar his trine-mates entirely."

If there was any fight left in Skywarp his aching wings, not to mention the desperation he felt just to have this whole slagging nightmare over with, drowned it out. He splayed his finger-servos across the plate beside the door, letting it read the pattern of electrical circuits in his fingertips. Leaning his helm against the cool steel plate, he braced himself, pulled his energy field in tight against his armour, and grated out the voice-coded access override TC had insisted they both have. "Open up, Screamer, it's an emergency!"

If it hadn't been for Thundercracker, he'd have fled and left the Autobots to deal with what they found alone. Even with his trine-mate under threat, he was tempted. It took more courage than he thought he had just to step aside and wait for the reaction.

The box sat on the lab bench, non-descript from this distance but radiating the same sense of jagged _wrongness_ Skywarp had felt since he'd teleported it here. The feeling had only gone stronger with time, the box leaking more and more of its energy into the room as Jazz's spark threatened to dissipate. The spark monitor above the bench was active, the captive spark's activity painfully weak. Jazz still struggled, his spark frequency bouncing through the range. Peaks and troughs in its output never paused, their erratic patterns disrupting the automatic programme that tried unceasingly to align the personality components to their resonant spark. The jagged trace Skywarp had seen in Shockwave's first experiments had faded though, becoming little more than an unsteady line, the earlier rhythmic pulsations replaced by staccato outbursts and the occasional pulse that faltered or skipped entirely.

Mirage took two steps into the room and froze in horror. Sunstreaker didn't even make it that far before snarling out an oath and flinging himself back against the wall, stance defensive and optics bright.

"That…! That's Jazz…?!"

"We don't have any way of knowing that," Mirage cautioned. The spy shook himself, taking another tentative step through the unshielded and increasingly pained energy field that filled the lab.

"You think they'd do _that_ to one of their own?" Sunstreaker demanded, blaster gripped tight between his finger-servos and back still to the wall.

"This is Shockwave's work." Mirage looked to be coping better than Skywarp would have given him credit for. Then the spy shuddered, and his distress showed clear and strong on his faceplates. "What if this is a trial subject?" He dropped his face into his hands. "We don't know. Primus, Jazz could be anywhere, could have faded already, and we _can't_ know!"

Skywarp had been leaning against the wall for support. He braced to push away and speak up, not for the Autodolts' sake, but for Thundercracker's and for the sake of putting the poor fragger in the box out of his misery. That's when he noticed Prowl.

The Praxian tactician's door-wings were splayed in pure horror and his lips were set in a thin line as he crossed the room. There was a visible tremor in the mech, but he didn't falter, just walked into the miasma of spark energy that had driven even Shockwave back the day before.

"This is Jazz."

"Prowl…" Sunstreaker sounded uneasy, the front-liner bracing to gather his courage and push away from the wall.

On the monitor above Prowl, the spark monitor faltered and then flared. The mech's intakes stuttered in a gasp, his hand coming up to hover above the cluster of crystals and the exposed spark-chamber in a caress that never made contact. He looked up at Sunstreaker and Mirage, his optics a brilliant blue in the dim light.

"I've spent more time with Jazz than any other mech, alive or dead. I know his energy field against mine, both the one he projects and the one he tries to hide."

Mirage and Sunstreaker traded worried looks, Skywarp forgotten or ignored to one side. The spy drew in a deep cycle through his vents and took another step forward. For a moment Skywarp felt the former noble extend a rigid, tightly controlled energy field through the room. Then Mirage recoiled, stumbling back into Sunstreaker and then away as the unsettled front-liner snarled at him.

"Pain," Mirage whispered. "Distress. Fear. I couldn't get any sense of identity."

Prowl's optics hadn't moved from the scarred spark-casing, the personality nodes and the mechanism supplying both with energy.

"Jazz," he repeated softly.

"Oh, for frag's sake. Of course it's the slagging saboteur! You think Lord Megatron would let Shockwave do this to someone on a whim?"

Sunstreaker growled, his optics over-bright. "Might if it was Starscream. Couldn't help noticing your trine-loser wasn't in the fight."

Skywarp jerked upright from his pained slouch. His optics flared and his vents stalled. For the first time since Prowl and the little gunner shot him down, he forced power through his internal weapons systems, sending a shower of sparks through the energy-flooded air as his damage showed. Fury drove him forward. What Prowl had done to Thundercracker… it was harsh and way out of line for an Autobot, but it was war. Skywarp could deal with that. Not this. Even the thought that _this_ could happen to one of his trine-mates…!

"Enough!"

Prowl's cry was accompanied by a flare in the all-pervasive energy field, a jagged sense of wrongness and angst that that sent spurs of pain even through Skywarp's locked-down field. Jazz's spark jerked from one frequency to another hard and fast enough to hurt even the strongest spark. It pulsed and stuttered frantically, before dropping down to a flicker that barely registered on the spark monitor.

"He can feel the conflict," Mirage whispered, horrified.

"Without spark-shielding and an armoured frame, he will feel every energy field in this room. Helpless. He feels so helpless." Prowl shuttered his optics, relaxed his vents and let his hand drop onto spark chamber.

The power drained from Skywarp's smoking systems. He would take the tactician out without a moment's hesitation if Thundercracker's spark wasn't on the line. That didn't stop the mech's act being one of the bravest slagging things he'd ever seen.

Prowl shuddered, his optics dimming and his door-wings trembling as pain wracked him. Skywarp expected him to snatch his hand back at any moment. He didn't expect the Praxian to hold his position, or for the saboteur's spark to pulse a little stronger and steadier in response.

Mirage had been as frozen at the rest of them. Now he stepped forward, blue optics bright with concern. "Prowl, let go! You can't let him take your power reserves. We need you strong enough to get yourself out of here. You've got to back off until we figure out how to move him."

"No!" Sunstreaker folded his arms across his chest. The sceptical note was gone from his voice, and so was the aggression, but his voice was vehement as he spoke across the spy. "Slag it, no, Mirage!" He took a step forward, ducking his helm to meet Prowl's half-shuttered optics. "Listen to me, Prowl. Vorn or two back, I took a tumble off Starscream's back. Slagged myself up worse than usual."

His Ops companion stared at him, throwing his arms up in frustration. "Is this really the time for anecdotes?"

"Jarred my personality components, and got a taste of Megatron's ion cannon _and_ Starscream's null-rays on the way down to round off my slagging-perfect day." Sunstreaker vented hard, his optics cycling. "Most of my internal sensors burnt out – even my heads-up display. Worse, my memory started glitching. My spark and memory nodes stopped talking to one another – just for a few microklicks at a time, and Ratch had me in stasis within a few klicks, but it was still the scariest pit of a thing I've ever experienced." Skywarp blinked at the open admission. Mirage actually gasped. Sunstreaker ignored them, optics for Prowl and no-one else. "I didn't know where I was, or what was going on, or even who the frag I was, only that I was in danger, and angry and pit-scared. Ratchet told Sideswipe that he'd only give fifty-fifty that I'd come out of it sane… if my spark managed to hold out under the stress of my frame coming back to full power."

"You survived," Prowl whispered, the words barely more than a shaped breath.

"I had Sides, holding onto me with all he had, telling me I'd be fine and making sure I _knew_ he'd care for me, even if I didn't know who he was or who I was, or even what the words pouring through my spark meant."

Prowl slumped a little, his hand not moving from the box, but his door-wings dropping low behind his back.

"Jazz doesn't have a twin. He isn't bonded."

"He has you." Sunstreaker folded his arms, his voice low and intense. "It's been Sideswipe on Ratch's table too often for me _not_ to watch a spark monitor when I see one, Prowl. He didn't react to Skywarp coming in, or Mirage, or me. But you… you were pretty slagging certain of his energy field instantly, and by the way his spark reacted, he read yours off just as fast. You're sensing more from him than any of us, and I'm betting that fragger Shockwave never steadied him like that, just be standing there. He feels you, Prowl, and I'd lay all Sides' credits that it's the only good thing he's felt since Shockwave did this to him. You let him go now and we might as well turn around and make the Seeker warp us out of here." He nodded at the monitor, dropping the optic contact. "That's a slagging weak spark, Prowl. He needs all the help he can get."

Prowl didn't argue. His free arm snaked around the box, bending down to draw it towards the edge of the high bench and in to his chest-plates. The spark monitor screamed and Prowl froze, his backplates rigid. He was feeling what the rest of them could only see on the monitor: the captive, unprotected spark reacting with shock and distress to even the gentlest movement.

Icy terror shot through Skywarp – of what the Autobots would do to Thundercracker, and Skywarp himself, if Jazz's spark guttered there on the table. He might have a less selfless motive, but his cry of fear was as genuine as those of the mechs around him when that end seemed inevitable.

Then Jazz's spark steadied. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it strengthened - still not close to the levels Skywarp had first seen, but burning brighter than it had for days.

With the Autobot tactician bent over the box, his chestplates almost touching it, it took Skywarp a few klicks to figure out what had changed. It was the second presence filling the room, the quiet note against Jazz's symphony of pain, that clued him in, even before he saw the pale light spilling between Prowl's chestplates.

Sunstreaker spun on the spot. Mirage dropped his gaze to the deck plates with a flush on his cheeks. Skywarp wasn't a prude by any means, but even he averted his optics as he realised what Prowl had done.

It wasn't full exposure. Prowl stopped his plating when it had separated by no more than an inch, and tight-sealed spark chambers still contained Jazz and Prowl both. Even so, it was an act of intimacy that sat uncomfortably with Skywarp's image of the implacable tactician. Spark energy spilled from him, no longer baffled by his frame, no longer absorbed into powering it. His shoulder-mounted canons folded away into their subspace pocket. His door-wings slumped, his optics dimming.

Despite himself, Skywarp's gun finger twitched. With his chestplates open, Prowl was vulnerable. Even a single shot could be fatal. With the Autobot's sensors and high-powered weapons systems offline, that shot might come from anywhere and it was tempting, or so tempting to take it himself. This was an act of trust that war-raised Skywarp still struggled to show his trine-mates, in the privacy of their own quarters. To do it in front of a stranger, for the sake of a mech he wasn't even bonded to…!

But the slagging thing was that it was working. Jazz's spark still jerked and shuddered, resisting forced contact with his memory nodes in some instinctual act of defiance, but it pulsed stronger and now Prowl's optics flickered in eerie synchrony.

Mirage vented, relief and frustration mingling in his expression. The spy's servos dropped to his hips as he watched Prowl very slowly, very carefully, gather the boxed spark to his own chest. Sunstreaker slumped against the wall.

"How the frag are we going to get them back to base?"

Skywarp shook himself out of his shock. He took a bold step forward, taking the time to shunt power out of his most damaged systems and reboot the navigation computer that Sunstreaker had thoroughly scrambled.

He'd had a pit of a day – a pit of an orn really since Starscream had gone and got himself banished. He was slagged when Megatron found he'd been captured, slagged when Shockwave caught up with him, slagged when Soundwave reviewed the lab access records, slagged if the Autobots extinguished too. He wanted to know what the 'bots' medics had done with Thundercracker. He'd probably already shocked Primus into spark-failure by actually _praying_ for his silent trine-mate. He'd had enough, and there was no fragging _way_ he was going to let this all be for nothing!

"You don't have to," he told the Autobots, forcing his aching thrusters to take another step. His vents stuttered, drowning in an energy field that was still far from happy, and if anything stronger with Prowl to reinforce it. He gasped in a sharp vent and forced it out again. "The thing about Screamer… he's pretty keen to keep me _out_ of his lab." Another step, a quick check that the yellow menace was still on the other side of the room. "He never…" One more step. "Never tried to keep me _in_."

Skywarp let himself fall forward, his vents tight, his outstretched finger-servos just brushing the tactician's pede. Prowl didn't react; the cries of the others didn't matter. Skywarp reached into his bond, searching for his stasis-locked trine-mate – if Ratchet wasn't there, he slagging well _ought_ to be – and warped.

* * *

Nothingness shouldn't hurt.

He didn't know much, couldn't remember one moment to the next, but he knew that much.

He knew what pain was – had memories of it seared into his spark, albeit robbed now of context or meaning.

He knew what he was feeling too. The constant pressure nagging him to cooperate with some outside force was wrong. It was alien, too forceful and too eager to make him do something. The bare flickers of spark-memory that remained to him told him he must resist. Coercion must always be resisted.

He didn't know, he couldn't, that the effort was draining him with each pulse of his spark, his energy spilling into nowhere and nothing, without a frame to reflect it back to him, and no feedback encouraging it to burn brighter.

His spark was weakening. His determination remained strong - and his frustration - although he couldn't have named either emotion. He only knew, instinctively, that they were his sole defence against the fear, pain and despair that threatened to unravel him.

He felt pressure, the curious sense that, as a mech, he'd have interpreted as being watched. He'd never felt it this strong, or this close, or tugging at him with so gentle a touch. At first he was curious, reaching out. Then the feeling flared and he struggled against it, against the violence and discord that threatened to jar his fragile structure apart.

And then he wasn't alone.

A calm that wasn't his own rushed over him. There were other emotions there too – fear, pain, grief – but it was the calm and deep affection that he recognised as familiar. It was those emotions he clung to and wrapped around himself. A presence reached back, opening itself freely to him in a way that he hadn't known from any other through this long ordeal. He marvelled at it, he needed it, he longed for it, and he knew it. It was like a part of himself that had been missing for the longest time, a stability he hadn't dared find and wasn't certain he'd ever possessed. The way it had come to him… the half-formed realisation that it could turn around at any moment and leave just as fast, was the single most terrifying concept he'd ever encountered.

Weak, confused and very afraid, Jazz latched onto his lifeline with all his strength, and without words, without thought even, Prowl assured him he'd never let go.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Having to call Skyfire down for rapid med-evac from the field of battle was one of Ratchet's least favourite things

Struggling to stabilise a jet's delicate and touchy systems was another.

Being confronted with both because Prowl had - in Sideswipe's words - "gone fragging nuts", put Thundercracker in danger of his spark and absconded Primus-knew-where, did not put the medic in the gentlest of moods. Even so, he tilted the Seeker's helm, checking that his pain inhibitor programming and stasis-blocks were holding, before he turned back to the mech's chest and let the grey temporary plating drop closed.

Thundercracker's original chest-plate lay on the ground at Ratchet's feet, the hole melted into its centre still smoking slightly as the acid continued to eat into it. Only a few drops had made it through the Seeker's armour before Ratchet had gotten to him. Bluestreak's babbled insistence that Prowl knew it would take breems did nothing to ease Ratchet's worry-fuelled anger. Those few drops had been enough to compromise vital lines. Mercifully, it was a straightforward fix… in a well-stocked repair bay, and under the hands of a fully-trained medic. Left to Hook's tender 'care' the Seeker might have had one chance in ten of survival. The chest-plate itself – that Ratchet was prepared to leave to the ham-fisted Constructicon mechanic, and if what Ratchet had seen of Shockwave's acid-streaked plating was any indication, Hook already had one of those to deal with. A spark-systems rupture? No.

And that was only the worst of it. Muttering imprecations under his breath at the absent tactician, Ratchet started work on stripping down Thundercracker's thrusters, damaged both by weapons fire and by his rough landing. He should have time. It would be breems yet before the other Autobots made it back to base, and Wheeljack was only reporting the usual scuffs, scrapes and minor dismemberments. Ratchet wasn't going to waste time smoothing and finishing, polishing the Seeker's armour or doing the painstaking realignment his flight surfaces would need. He wouldn't leave his temporary patient with serious and painful damage either.

At least, not until he found out just why their second-in-command seemed to have taken such sudden and violent offence to the Seeker. Ratchet's fist tightened around the wrench he held, all too painfully aware of the cold frame occupying the small room behind him. Once he heard Prowl's reasoning, then all bets were off.

That was assuming he ever got to hear it. Ratchet raised worried optics to the corner of the repair bay, watching the red-clad warrior there pace. Bluestreak had insisted he bring someone to 'watch' Thundercracker, as if Ratchet were some green apprentice who'd forget the stasis blocks on a Decepticon captive or let them slip. He'd brought Sideswipe along simply because the lone twin was spending more time looking out of his brother's optics than his own. On a battlefield, that would get them both killed.

Ratchet frowned. Sideswipe had frozen mid-step. The warrior trembled and hugged himself, dropping to his knees. The shivers became full-scale shakes. His engine stuttered, violent shudders rippled through his frame and the shocked medic realised that lubricant was pooling in Sideswipe's optics. Ratchet laid down his tools with careful precision, crossing the room to kneel in front of the horrified young warrior.

"Sideswipe?" He reached out gently and very slowly to touch the mech's shoulder. Sideswipe was the less volatile twin, but still plenty capable of doing damage when startled. "Sides, talk to me. What's wrong?"

"Jazz…" Sideswipe's vents hiccupped, cutting off his vocaliser. "You never told us… Jazz…"

Ratchet felt his circuits run cold. Did that mean…? Pit, it could mean anything, and Ratchet didn't dare ask. Sideswipe couldn't risk a breakdown, not with his spark-bound brother being dragged through a slagging Decepticon base. Even so, Ratchet needed information, and Sideswipe was their only source.

"Sideswipe, what about Prowl? Is Prowl all right?"

"Yes… No… Pit, we don't know!"

The uncertainty was better than at least one alternative. Ratchet rocked back on his heels, torn between returning to work on Thundercracker, and staying to quiz the barely-responsive twin.

The decision was taken from him. Sideswipe burst into life. The warrior scrambled to his feet, grabbing his blaster from subspace with one hand while the other tugged Ratchet up beside him. He barely had time.

There was a cracking sound, a rush of displaced air, and the almost-deserted repair bay was suddenly a good deal too full.

The sense of presence that filled the room was powerful, and hurting, and almost too much for Ratchet's medic-grade buffers to shield him from. He forced a hard reset of his firewall systems, his optics cycling to reveal Prowl standing rigid with shock and trembling in the centre of the room, something clutched to his chest.

Ratchet was across the room in a sparkbeat. He reached out on instinct, looking only to clear the obstruction and get his new patient onto a berth.

"Don't touch it!" The cry came from Sideswipe and the black-and-purple Seeker sprawled across the floor in ragged unison. Ratchet hesitated, sweeping his sensors over Prowl, searching for the threat.

That's when he realised what was in the box.

"You left my brother behind!"

Ratchet was only peripherally aware of Sideswipe pulling Skywarp to his feet, ramming him against the wall.

"That's what you're taking from this? _That?_" The damaged Seeker gasped air through his vents, not even trying to fight. "What are you worried about? He could probably chew his way out of there with his denta alone. Besides, he's got the slagging spy with him." The Seeker let out a low cry, his attention suddenly diverted. "Thundercracker!"

Ratchet tuned them out, all his medic's instincts focussed instead on the Primus-forsaken mess in front of him.

Prowl cycled his optics, a hazy awareness settling on the medic.

"Ratchet?" he whispered. He took a step back, wobbling as a polished steel med-berth hit the back of his legs. The dim-opticed Praxian sank onto it, curling around the box still clutched to his part-open chest-plates. "He hurts."

Ratchet moved the moment the tactician, and the box he held, was stable on the berth. Spare sheeting, left to one side when he was done making Thundercracker a temporary plate, was snatched up and cast over Jazz and Prowl both, not coming between them or even doing anything to help the struggling sparks, but going some way towards shielding the other mechs in the room. A few klicks later he had Prowl hooked up to a spark monitor, its screen showing a strange double peak as a second, unshielded spark pulsed not-quite-in-harmony with his own. A breem after that, Ratchet had the tactician on spark support, feeding his frame energy to replace what his spark was feeding to Jazz or just spilling into the air around them.

Only then did Ratchet turn with deep trepidation to the box itself.

The first time he tried to touch it, the echoed spark pulse dropped catastrophically, taking Prowl's with it. Stabilising the tactician, hoping desperately that doing so would even out Jazz's erratic spark-pulse, took the better part of two breems. Relief gusted hard from the medic's vents when the rhythm finally settled. He stepped back, studying without touching. Prowl was phasing in and out of awareness, struggling weakly against the medic and lying passive in turns. Wincing at the necessity, not sure himself whether it was a good idea, but needing the time to think, Ratchet leaned forward and placed a wedge in the inch-wide gap between Prowl's chest-plates. The tactician relaxed, just a fraction, some of the strain easing from his frame as the wedge creaked under the pressure and held.

The chief medical officer knew for a fact that this wasn't the first time the mech had cracked his chest-plates. Keeping them open this long, and under such strain, though... that would be difficult for anyone, let alone a mech with Prowl's sense of restraint.

The pit-cursed box beeped, a whir announcing some automatic process that had both Prowl and Ratchet tensing. The glowing diode beside Jazz's scarred spark-chamber stayed steady though, the flow of current sustaining it uninterrupted. Ratchet stared at it, a deep fear growing in him. He didn't have the first slagging clue how the thing worked or what it was doing. The way Jazz was reacting to intrusions in his energy field, Ratchet daren't even open the front panel and take a look.

The weary medic took a step back and cursed in a vehement whisper. His finger-servos rubbed the broad, grey chevron at his brow. As things stood, Ratchet could keep Prowl stable, barely. He didn't have any slagging idea what to do about Jazz.

A sigh gusted from the medic's vents, and he looked up properly for the first time since Prowl's unexpected arrival.

He became aware of the silence and the noise at once. Beyond the repair bay's bulkheads he could make out scuffs and rumbles – the sounds of a fully occupied Ark. Inside, he suddenly realised, he and Prowl were totally, alarmingly alone.

"Wheeljack!"

"Here, Ratch."

The engineer's response to his com signal was quick and calm. Either it meant Ratchet's emergency back-up had things under control, or he didn't have a clue just how slagged they were.

"Sideswipe? The Seekers?"

"Sides went out to meet Sunstreaker. Kid was fretting, but not really bond-freak-out frantic, so I let him go. Seekers're here with me, an' 'Hide an' Trailbreaker in my lab. Got Skywarp fixed up, all 'cepting his screwed-up navigation processor. Still working on Thundercracker. You did the tough stuff, but Prowl an' the twins did a real number on 'im." Wheeljack's cheerful tone faded, his voice becoming cautious. "Looked like you were busy, so I pulled 'em out of there."

Ratchet's optics dimmed in relief. Sideswipe was a twin, and the Seekers trined, all of them better able to cope with spark-energy spillage than most, but lingering here wouldn't have been good for any of them. Wheeljack's medical mods made him one of the few other mechs on the Ark who could have entered the repair bay without losing his head while Jazz and Prowl flooded the room. He was also one of the few Ratchet could speak to honestly.

"I don't know what to do."

Wheeljack was silent in the face of his sudden admission.

"I mean it, 'Jack. I don't know if I can pull Jazz through this. Or whether Prowl will let me save him if I don't."

There was a long pause before Wheeljack spoke.

"Ratch, you've got ta get a grip. A day ago Jazz was dead and we were more'n half way to losin' Prowl too." The engineer sighed. "I know you're not going to let them slip between your servos now. Not when we have a second chance."

The trust was reassuring and devastating all at the same time. Ratchet felt his back-struts straighten, his spark aching with determination not to fail. He cycled air deep and slow through his vents.

"All right. 'Jack, I need to know what you have by way of passive sensor systems with spark energy filtration capability. We've got to figure out what's going on in there."

There was no hint of his momentary wobble in his voice, and, for all his tone showed, Wheeljack might have forgotten it entirely. His cheerful reply held nothing but confidence.

"I'll be right there."

* * *

The door slammed open, clattering back against purple wall plates. Megatron loomed in the opening like a gathering storm cloud. Pausing, framed in the doorway, he glared around the Constructicons' maintenance bay. His scarlet optics burned in the dim light like the fires of the Pit, threatening torment and damnation to any who crossed his path.

There was total silence from the Decepticons present as their warlord stalked across the bay, Soundwave following like a dark shadow in his wake. The mechs cowered, even their vents stifled in the effort not to attract their lord's attention. The quiet just made things worse. There was nothing to distract from the damp sounds that accompanied each step. More than one of the watching mechs found themselves wondering that the residual moisture didn't vaporise on contact, such was the heat rolling through Megatron's energy field.

Hook's visor tracked the approaching officers, his expression impassive. A purple chest-plate lay at his feet, its translucent panels blackened and bubbled by corrosives. On the bench beside him, a large mech lay in repair-mode stasis, his single optic dark. Megatron's optics scanned the form with distaste and more than a little disdain. The gunformer's robust frame looked largely intact, his thick plating protecting him against the Dinobot onslaught. The replacement chest-plate - a temporary grey while the Constructicons shaped more permanent armour to Hook's exacting standards - suggested it had done less well against the Autobot tactician's shot.

Megatron's pede sank ankle-deep. He stopped, glaring at the point where the slope of the deck and the confluence of obstructions had allowed a deeper puddle to collect. Taking a step backwards, the warlord snarled and brought his ion cannon to bear. Light and heat filled the room and then the hiss of steam. It swelled in a thick cloud around him, lit from within by the blaze of his optics, and then dissipated. Scorched deck-plates were the only sign that remained of the flooding.

It was bad enough that the Nemesis had been infiltrated during their absence. Bad enough that Autobots had violated Decepticon territory, even while their furious comrades handed Megatron's army their hardest defeat for some years. Bad enough that their first task on their return had been emergency repairs on the damage the raiders had done whilst fighting their way out. Megatron would not tolerate reminders of that indignity, or of the floods that half his warriors were trying to mop up even now.

Hook's aristocratic jaw-line was fixed, his expression of disapproval fixed on the scorch marks rather than his lord and master. He glanced up at his gestalt-mates, and Scavenger hurried forward, drawing a cleaning cloth from his subspace and scrambling into Megatron's immediate presence in a half-kneeling grovel.

"Pah!" Megatron allowed the Constructicon to approach and then stepped onto the power-shovel's broad back, stepping down again to halt beside Shockwave's bench.

The warlord folded his arms, glaring at the green and purple engineer in front of him.

"Will he live?"

Hook's impassive expression didn't falter in the face of Megatron's snarl. He reached out, finger-servos resting on the control panel of one of the many machines surrounding the berth. There was nothing but cool interest on his face-plates as he raised a brow-ridge.

"Does my Lord desire it?"

For too long a moment, Megatron was tempted, oh so tempted. He'd half-expected Shockwave's perverted experiment to end in failure from the start, but the chaos and destruction the scientist had brought down upon them rivalled Starscream's worse excesses.

If Megatron listened only to his anger, Shockwave would be a sparking ruin. If Megatron were so short-sighted, he would not be the warlord leading his people to glory and domination. Shockwave was a fool, but he was a useful fool and a loyal one. For all his faults, the mech was still the best of his officers to hold Cybertron in Megatron's absence and, corrupt as his genius was, he still had an intellect Megatron couldn't afford to lose from his diminished forces.

Megatron's servos clenched at his sides, his gun barrel whining with power despite his reluctant conclusions. He threw his hands up in disgust and growled his anger to the distant skies.

"Minimal repairs only."

At his feet, Scavenger flinched, anticipating his gestalt-mate's protest. Hook's lips twisted in distaste, but not even the perfectionist engineer challenged the order. He bowed his helm, his finger-servos dropping away from the controls.

"My Lord."

Megatron didn't so much as acknowledge him. He shook his helm, his scowl deepening as frustration compounded his anger.

"Soundwave, ready the space bridge. I want this pathetic excuse for a mech off the planet before dawn."

"My Lord." Soundwave echoed Hook, his bow perhaps a fraction less deep, his monotonic voice perhaps a fraction more satisfied. Megatron glowered at him, and Soundwave took the hint, his bow deepening.

"Recall Starscream." The tyrant scowled around the bay, and glanced up at the dim emergency lights overhead. "I want this base at full efficiency before the orn is out."

Shockwave nodded, straightening. He reached up to press a shoulder button, and Ravage sprang from his chest compartment. The bestial cassette landed and paced in a tight circle, pedes raised high and backplates shuddering in distaste at the dampness underfoot. The cassette paused, glanced up at his silent host, and then bowed his helm in a nod, racing off to do his master's bidding.

Megatron raised a brow ridge. A little surprised that his communications officer would delegate his orders, he waited for an explanation. His frown warned that it had better be good.

"Lord Megatron." Soundwave wasn't taking chances; there was no hint of disrespect or criticism in his drone. He bowed, hand over his chest-plate. "Thundercracker, Skywarp: Autobot captives?"

Hook's snort attracted glares from both his superiors. The engineer shrugged.

"Might be a moot point." He gestured at Shockwave's damaged and disgarded chest-plate. "Seeker flight armour won't have lasted as long. And Prowl was rather closer." He sniffed. "That slap-dash mechanic Ratchet might have saved them, if he chose, but judging by the Autobots' general attitude today, I rather doubt it."

The grumble in Megatron's generator was anger rather than dismay. The emotion that tightened his jaw was irritation rather than guilt. Losing Starscream's trine-mates now would be an inconvenience, and it was anticipation of his second's audial-damaging shriek that explained his flaring energy field. Megatron nodded in silent agreement with his rationalisations, utterly failing to acknowledge them as such. He waved a dismissive servo.

"I will not lower myself to clear up my subordinate's messes." He glowered around the room, his cold tone making it clear that his decision was final. "The Seekers are Starscream's problem. Let him deal with them."

* * *

"Shut the door and don't distract me!"

Optimus Prime cycled his optics, but didn't hesitate. He took a step forward, already broadcasting the codes that would close and lock the repair bay door behind him. Ratchet hadn't told him to stay out. Even if he had, Prime might have forced the matter.

Medbay had been sealed since Wheeljack and the rest of the crew returned from the battle more than a joor before. Ratchet had been unresponsive on the com for longer still. After any battle that would be a matter of concern to the Prime. After what he'd heard from Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Mirage and even Skywarp, it was even more so.

His second in command lay on his side on a med-berth, optics dark, door-wings limp behind him. Prowl's frame was slightly curled, protective and possessive, around a dark metal box that Prime had already heard far too much about.

Ratchet stood a few metres from the berth, Wheeljack hovering at his shoulder. Behind them, Jazz's empty frame had been moved from the side room to a second berth. Its chestplate had been repaired, the systems below rebuilt with meticulous care. Despite that, the visor was still dark, the frame still grey.

The energy field throbbing through the air was palpable. So was the tension. Optimus Prime stood stock-still, brow-ridges furrowed as he tried to interpret the situation. At first, he'd thought Ratchet was motionless, waiting for something. It was only after several long seconds that he realised the medic was manipulating a long probe – an instrument somewhere between human tongs and tweezers – to reach into the thick energy field surrounding Jazz and retrieve an all-too-familiar set of crystal nodes, one by one.

"Slowly, Ratch." Wheeljack's whisper came over the com, including Prime as much for the sake of warning as for information, he felt. "Slowly. He's feeling it."

"Readings?" Ratchet demanded, com voice tightly controlled.

"Definite upkick, but still below threshold."

Ratchet's ex-vent was soft but it echoed through the silent room. "Whatever that means in his case."

"Settling a bit now."

"Almost there… almost there."

The crystal in Ratchet's grip moved slowly. Prime's optics followed it, inch by inch until he cycled his optics in startled shock to see it nestled safely amongst the others in Wheeljack's outstretched servos.

Tension left Optimus Prime's frame in a gust of air from his vents. It returned a moment later as he froze, optics searching the tableau in front of him for any hint that his exhalation had caused a disturbance.

"If you wake Prowl your next maintenance exam will be an ordeal that would make the denizens of the Pit recoil in horror and disgust."

It wasn't so much the words that terrified Prime. It was Ratchet's utterly casual and matter of fact tone as he delivered them over the com.

The medic looked up at him with optics dimmer than usual and a frame that sagged with weariness. Wheeljack lowered Jazz's personality components carefully into a lined box in his friend's servos and only then did the two share Prime's relaxation. Wheeljack grinned, patting Ratchet on his shoulder in congratulation. Ratchet just shook his helm tiredly.

"Prime: my office. Jack…"

"I'll keep an eye on things out here."

"No. I won't be far. Go check on the Seekers instead, they're…" Ratchet raised a brow-ridge in Prime's direction, asking a question with his optics. Optimus nodded.

"In the brig." He held up his hand to still the protest he saw on both faces. "Hoist is monitoring them. He felt it best to leave Thundercracker in stasis lock until Ratchet checked his work. I believe Skywarp will remain cooperative as long as his trine-mate requires care."

Ratchet gave him an intent look and then glanced at Prowl. Scowling, he turned back to Wheeljack.

"Leave Thundercracker in stasis. He shouldn't be straining those spark-system repairs anytime soon. He doesn't need the stress of being in the brig, and I wouldn't want to guess what either of those jets will be in for when they get back to the Nemesis."

Wheeljack ran a hand over his blast mask, his vocal indicators flickering pale green in response to some unspoken thought. The engineer nodded, skirting the prone figure on the berth by a wide-margin on his way to the door. Prime mirrored him, his energy field drawn carefully tight and his movements cautious as he stuck to the boundaries of the room.

It was a relief when Ratchet closed the door to his office behind them. The air lost its thick and heavy taint. Prime felt his tension cables easing, his jaw joint and back-struts relaxing as the steel door held the spark energy back. Ratchet seemed to feel it too. The medic released air from his vents in a gust. He dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk, waving Prime to the other. Somewhat to Optimus's surprise, the cubes his friend pulled from the desk draw lacked the sheen of high-grade, instead casting the steady glow of mid-grade.

Ratchet didn't give him long to inspect them. The medic uncapped his cube with the flick of one finger, downing its contents in a single draft. He gazed into nowhere for a long moment, shaking his helm, before sighing and looking down at the box he'd placed on the desktop between them. Prime felt the tingle of powerful sensors nearby and Ratchet reached into the box, holding one of the larger crystals up to the light and inspecting it minutely.

"Prowl knocked this out of the mechanism." Ratchet offered the information without prompting. He lowered the crystal back into the box and subjected another to the same intense study, before allowing his shudder to emerge. Optimus waited, aware of the growing tremor in his friend's servos. "Primus, I thought we'd lose Jazz there and then. His readings plummeted." The red and white mech dropped his face into his servos for a moment before looking up with a grimace. "Then half the box's systems shutdown. It wasn't until they did that I realised how much the slagging thing was pushing at him, trying to sync up his personality components and memory algorithms for access. I think Jazz has been fighting it this whole time."

Optimus watched Ratchet's servos tremble and pushed the second cube across the desktop without a word. It was patently apparent that his chief medical officer needed it more than he did. Ratchet glanced at it, grasped it and then downed it seemingly without thought.

Prime gave him a moment before starting with the easier question of the two troubling his processor.

"Prowl…?"

"Is physically fine… give or take some minor damage. Just tired. He drifted into recharge after Jazz stabilised a little." The medic managed a wry and humourless smile. "Second time in three breems I thought Jazz was going to fade. He wobbled long and hard before deciding to follow Prowl's example and settle down."

The Prime hummed a low note, his vocaliser vibrating in his throat assembly. He couldn't put off the harder question any longer.

"Jazz?"

"I don't know. Honest, Prime, I don't." Ratchet stood abruptly, pacing the small room, his optics flicking over the monitors that relayed readings from the med-berth outside. Prime had no doubt that alerts would sound both aloud and in Ratchet's helm the moment there was anything to concern him, but the medic never looked away for more than a few klicks regardless. "He's in a dangerous state. Weak and in a critical condition still, but stable for now. The contact with Prowl seems to be giving him something to anchor him. It might give us time to figure out how the frag we're going to transfer him back to his frame. Optimus… _might_ is the operative word there. Even if it was safe to leave him and Prowl like this, Jazz is reacting to any disturbance in his energy field like an attack. I don't have a fragging clue how that box is keeping his spark supported. And I can't even be sure it's possible to reframe him. We have frames for a reason, you know. I don't know of an adult spark that's survived a full frame transplant – with or without an intact chamber. Cosmetic modifications are one thing, but this... I'm not convinced the fact that the frame was his to begin with will make a difference."

Ratchet dropped back into his seat, throwing his hands up in a helpless gesture.

"We'll do everything we can, Prime. _Everything_. But I can't make promises."

It was a lot to take it in. Prime absorbed his friend's words with a furrowed brow. Not for the first time, he thanked his creator for the battle-mask that hid so much of his emotion. His self-control algorithms – regulating his vents and optic luminosity – managed most of the rest of it. His crew, looking at their Prime, would see a mech calm and steady, in control despite the ordeal of two of his closest friends. Ratchet wasn't fooled for a nanoklick.

The medic picked up the second - now empty - cube, inspecting the residue. He pulled out a third, this one with the brighter iridescence of high-grade, and pushed it across the desk towards Prime. Optimus accepted it and sipped, guilt gnawing at him when he noticed that Ratchet himself was abstaining – his friend still tense and unable to keep his optics from the monitors. Swirling the high-grade shot, he mulled over Ratchet's words.

"Even if it was safe," he repeated slowly, making the words a question with a tilt of one browridge. "Jazz is that critical?"

"He could fade out any nano-klick, and he'd likely take Prowl with him." Ratchet pulled no punches, his words blunt. "But that's not the biggest danger…" The medic shook his helm, meeting Prime's worried optics with his own. "Prime, the way they're sharing spark energy, there's a better than even chance that, if they do make it through, they won't be quite the mechs we knew. Unless we're more fragging lucky than we've been in the length of this war, your officers are going to end up sharing more than they ever bargained for. And that won't be easy for anyone."

It took Prime a few klicks to process his medical officer's meaning. Then they did, and not even Prime's already-strained subroutines could keep his optics steady at that. They flared in shock and dismay, the mere concept difficult to process. A long, silent breem passed as Prime sipped at his high-grade, trying to work through the ramifications.

"Better that than deactivated."

Ratchet's vocaliser hummed an uncertain note at his Prime's verdict. The medic looked as worn and weary as Prime felt.

"I only hope Jazz and Prowl agree."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Prowl cycled his optics, his processor booting from recharge far too slowly to keep up with the tumultuous emotions spilling from his spark. There was a sense of wrongness and unfamiliarity, fear, lingering pain and confusion. There were also emotions Prowl was less familiar with: comfort, companionship and an unconditional trust that was almost frightening.

His servo came up, to rest against his chest-plates. The inch-wide gap there was all too obvious under his servo-tips but neither that unsettling sensation nor the error messages on his rebooting HUD could dampen the sense of wonder filling him.

He'd never felt anything like this. Had never really wanted to. And now he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to live without it.

"Prowl? Prowl, can you hear me?"

Prowl raised an optic ridge, and not just at Ratchet's cautious tone.

"Indeed I can," he noted, as surprised by his calm response as Ratchet seemed to be. Yesterday he'd struggled to retain awareness of speech let alone employ it. Today was far, far easier. Since he seemed to have the use of his vocaliser, he would ask the only question that mattered. "How is Jazz?"

The medic crossed his arms across his bumper. Ratchet stood not far from the berth, close to Prowl's helm but able to look down on the box his patient still held to his chest-plate. The medic's own electromagnetic field was drawn in tight to his frame, his movements almost painfully careful. "Taking his cue from you, I think. His spark output has been close to what I'd expect for a mech in recharge."

"He's waking up now." Prowl couldn't have said how he knew that. With Jazz's spark radiation mingling with his, spilling into his frame, he felt his friend's fragmentary awareness as an echo of his own.

"He seems calmer today."

Ratchet was still using that too-level tone. Prowl glanced at him, pressing his fingertips a little harder against his own chest-plate.

"He's in less pain." Not pain-free. Not that at all, but the constant, stabbing pressure trying to manipulate Jazz's memory resonance was gone. "He's still scared. But I think he feels safer now."

"Will he object if you sit up?"

It was a question worthy of consideration. Prowl hadn't tried to move his frame, all too aware of the warnings populating his internal displays. His frame was stiff from a night curled in an unfamiliar pose. More, and despite the energon feed he was registering, he felt weak. Too much of his spark energy had spilled out into the room before his frame could absorb and redistribute it. Most importantly, he still remembered the terror and violent reactions from Jazz's fragile spark whenever another mech had tried to approach them the night before. Now though the saboteur did seem calmer and altogether less fragile. How would Jazz react to Prowl himself moving?

"I believe it might be a good time to find out."

One of Prowl's hands still rested on Jazz's box, his finger servos brushing Jazz's spark-chamber in a far-too-intimate gesture. He had no intention of moving it. He extended the other to Ratchet, letting the medic ease him up to sit on the berth. He felt stiff and weary. A deep ache spread through the hinge-joints as his door-wings protested. Theirs wasn't the only protest.

He felt Jazz's surge of fear and confusion a moment before the monitors started chiming a steady complaint. Air hissed through Ratchet's vents, and the hands steadying Prowl stilled. The tactician stilled too, his attention turning inwards with comfort and reassurance. There was still no reason to his friend's reactions. Without access to his memories, or the intricacy of an advanced processor, Jazz was nothing more but a ball of instincts, coloured by the haze of spark-deep memories and impressions.

The saboteur might not remember who he was, or who Prowl was, or much of what had happened, but he knew that a familiar spark was protecting and nurturing him. And, after a week of pain burned into his lonely spark, he knew to worry when that gentle warmth retreated.

Prowl focussed on the unfamiliar sensations, not even noticing he was murmuring aloud. A constant litany of "you're safe", "I'm here" and "I won't leave" spilled from his vocaliser, even as he straightened fully. The yard or so between his chestplates and the box, still lying on the berth, felt far too great a distance. It was several klicks before Jazz settled, relieved that he could still feel Prowl's spark energy washing over him. Prowl was surprised to realise that his own frame was relaxing as he confirmed the reverse was true. It was a little unnerving just how accustomed he'd become to the near-overwhelming energy field that resonated in his spark as pure _Jazz_.

He took a moment to calm his vents. His optics flared a little brighter and then dimmed as he forced his battle computer online, despite his low energy levels. He needed control now. He needed to think clearly, in a way he hadn't since his decision on the battlefield the day before.

His energy levels dropped, but his processor cleared.

"Here!" A cube was thrust into his servos and he grasped it instinctively, cycling his optics at the irate medic. "Drink! If you're going to be a Primus-forsaken idiot, at least refuel while you're doing it."

The waver of uncertain concern from Jazz decided the matter. Prowl topped off his fuel reserves and tried to ignore how much weight that whisper of emotion had carried in his decision to do so.

His battle computer had launched into an automatic review of his recent activities, summarising his mistakes since it was last active, and the tactical and strategic implications he hadn't had time to consider the day before. He shook his helm, unable to hide the wince on his faceplates.

"I fear Optimus Prime must share your low opinion of me."

Ratchet snorted, still softly, still speaking in a low voice, but amused. "I think he's still more worried than annoyed." The medic's optics cycled and he ex-vented. "Give it time. He'll get around to thinking straight eventually."

The amusement faded. Ratchet's optics scanned across the medical readouts above the berth, and dropped to the additional sensor device he held in one hand. When he looked up, there was a grim set to his lip-plates.

"Prowl. Listen carefully. Jazz is as stable as he's been since you got here. If these readings are anything to go by, he's probably aware enough to deal with subtle changes as long as he doesn't panic." The medic vented again, the expelled air a whisper across Prowl's door-wings. "I want you to do what you can to reassure him. And then I want you to ease your chest armour closed."

He didn't even have to think about it. "No."

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. I need readings of his spark-state, Prowl. Uncontaminated readings."

It made sense, far too much sense. Prowl's frame tensed with his deep reluctance, and he felt Jazz's awareness shifting, reaching out to him in reaction. He sent back a pulse of comfort without even thinking about it, his processor distracted. Prowl's battle computer insisted Ratchet was right. His spark insisted otherwise.

The tactician's optics rested on the metal box that contained all Jazz was. He could feel the warmth of his friend's chamber under his servo-tips, and the vibration of the mechanisms keeping Jazz alive. Prowl would not let that go. His battle-computer flinched at the renewed decision, pointing out his value to the Autobots and the dangers of what he was doing. Prowl himself had no such doubts. He cycled down his optics and focussed on that certainty, letting it spill through his spark and out into the mingling spark energies. He would not fail Jazz. He would not leave him and he would not let anything harm him, no matter the cost to himself.

It was almost two breems before he let his optics cycle up. Not going anywhere, he reminded the spark that throbbed uncertainly so close to his. Not leaving you.

The promise rang through his processor as he nodded to Ratchet. He could only pray that Jazz understood it. At least Ratchet seemed to understand his nod. The medic leaned around him, gentle servos working the wedge from between Prowl's chest-plates.

Neither of them expected Prowl's deep-coded survival instincts to slam the heavy, armoured plates closed without intervention from his processor.

Jazz wasn't expecting it either.

The spark chamber heated under Prowl's servos. The monitors screamed. He felt the unframed spark's desperate fear as a jagged pain deep in his own chest. He didn't need to hear Ratchet's low stream of profanity to know that something was wrong. The medic worked fast, servos skimming across several different tools and monitors in an attempt to gauge the situation. The box itself went untouched, but Prowl was eased back down, medical interventions registering on his logs, not realising until that point that at least some of the alarms were a response to his own blind panic.

His chest-plates split, his processor and spark in total agreement and to the Pit with survival coding. Prowl clutched Jazz's box to him, his vents irregular and harsh as he bathed Jazz's chamber in his spark radiation, trying to pour comfort and apology into his energy field.

"Prowl! No!" Ratchet's sharp order made it through the haze of terror and loneliness and relief at the renewed contact.

Prowl could count the number of times he'd heard that tone in Ratchet's voice on his servos. His battle-computer sent out an override, stilling every one of Prowl's voluntary systems, and it was only then that the tactician realised the locks on his spark chamber themselves had disengaged. He resealed them with a mental command and then returned his concentration to where it belonged, the urgent need to reassure Jazz overriding even his shock at his own actions.

A pensive Ratchet was watching him when Prowl emerged from his haze, klicks or breems later. Jazz had calmed, and Prowl alongside him. Both were tired, emotions ragged and far closer to the surface than either would usually permit. Prowl's processor was ringing. His battle computer was still active and it drained energy faster than he seemed able to absorb it from energon infusions. He was reluctant to shut it down nonetheless.

Even after half a lifetime as Jazz's friend, the emotional maelstrom now centred on Prowl was unfamiliar and rather frightening. The tactician had made more irrational, unplanned decisions in the last half-orn than he had in vorns. He didn't doubt for a moment that they'd been overwhelmingly correct, but the memory of Ratchet's command was slow to fade. The idea that he'd fully expose his spark for anyone, even Jazz, was a shock. That he could do it unconsciously, and without hesitation, left him numb.

No, Prowl needed a voice of rationality in his helm, if only to keep him aware of what he was deciding against.

"Is he settled?"

Prowl glanced down at the box he held, torn between a fond smile and an exasperated frown. Both were familiar when dealing with Jazz, and it felt better to think that way: as if this was Jazz badgering him not to overwork, or whining at him to stay for just one more human movie, rather than clinging to him for life and sanity. Easier to think of those happier times than confront the miasma of desperation and anxiety battering at his spark. The sentience confined to the box was not the confident Jazz that Prowl knew so well.

He nodded, not releasing his grip, and this time Ratchet didn't even try to tell him to.

Ratchet vented a sigh, seating himself. "First off, I'm sorry."

That earned a sharp look from his patient. Ratchet met his optics. "For making you try that, and for what I have to tell you now it's failed. The two of you have been friends for a long time, Prowl. Close friends. You're used to one another. As you told Sunstreaker, you know the touch of Jazz's field and he knows yours. At some level, your sparks know one another." Ratchet waved one hand in the air, a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the Ark around them. "That's unusual but not so much so as people think, especially this late in the fragging war. Half this crew has some level of resonance with one or more of their friends. It's the kind of connection that lets one mech seek another out, just when the second is most in need of a companion, or lets someone fire into a melee and not hit the comrade they're trying to save."

Prowl nodded, not surprised by the description but uneasy that Ratchet chose to discuss it.

"Prowl… you're going a long way past that now. I was afraid of it even before…" He paused, his eyes on the monitors. No doubt he could see the shock that Prowl worked hard to keep from his faceplates and door-wings.

"Our spark chambers are closed! Bonding…"

"A full bond would require spark-to-spark contact. You don't have that, and until I can be sure you _both _know exactly what you're doing, you'll have it over my cold, grey frame. But that doesn't make this any less real." Ratchet leaned forward, making sure of optic-contact before going on. "Brief exposure to spark energy happens, Prowl. Half this crew has been close enough to get a dose of energy when someone takes chest-plate damage on the field. Medics get it all the time, and have extra spark-shielding to prevent mingling."

Prowl felt his tanks churn. "But this isn't brief exposure."

Ratchet nodded grimly. "If I'd seen any way to stabilise Jazz without you, you'd have been out of here in nano-klicks. As it is, I'm working on unfamiliar ground. I was thinking it might be like a Guardian/New-spark situation – forming a lasting link due to that early and frequent exposure. But you and Jazz are both adults, and I've been thinking about the guests you oh-so-kindly landed in Prime's servos. Probably the closest analogy is actually a Seeker trine-bond. They don't always share sparks, but they do mingle energies pretty often."

It took all Prowl's self-control to keep his voice level. "Either way, you're talking about a permanent, spark-level link."

"I am."

"Then you have to find a way to break it!"

Ratchet raised a brow ridge. "Optimus has already said he'd rather take the risk on having two officers bonded than lose either of you."

"Slag the risks! That's not why…" The level tones were gone. Prowl's optics flared bright, his agitation making his door-wings jerk against his back. He saw Ratchet startle at the curse, but he had to make the medic understand. "Jazz can't go through life chained to me! He needs his freedom. He deserves it! Ratchet, you know his reputation! He's a social mech…"

"His reputation is vorns out of date." Ratchet cut across Prowl's rambling protest with a sharp edge to his tone. "You should know as well as I do that Jazz isn't nearly as 'social' a mech as he was when he was younger. Maybe he found something else fulfilled him more."

Prowl's door-wings twitched. The thought of burdening his best friend with his constant presence appalled him. He knew that he was considered a rather dull and unpersonable mech, worlds apart from his vivacious and outgoing friend. Prowl wouldn't dream of 'cramping Jazz's style' and had, in fact, gone to some length to avoid doing so over the vorns. The mere fact that they were discussing Jazz's personal life bothered him in a way he couldn't explain. The idea that in future he might actually have to experience it, carried along for the ride, was frankly horrifying. He scowled at Ratchet, aware that the mech was still expecting a reply.

"I wouldn't know. Jazz and I have more interesting things to do and discuss than such matters."

"Which is kind of my point," Ratchet murmured.

Prowl gave him a look of angry incomprehension. He mastered the emotion with an effort. He could feel Jazz stirring, the much abused spark still uneasy and feeling the echoes of his anger. Instead he kicked his battle computer into a higher gear, letting a cool mask fall across his countenance and frag the consequences for his systems.

"I assume this so-called 'bond' will only get stronger in line with the duration of exposure?" he demanded.

Ratchet gave him an unimpressed look for his tone. The medic reached out to adjust the flow on Prowl's energon feed before nodding sombrely.

"Then reframing Jazz must be considered a highly urgent priority."

"It already was." Sitting back in his chair, the medic scowled. "And we're working on options. But Shockwave might be the only mech in the galaxy with a clue how to do it, and Sky-Spy caught Megatron banishing him back to Cybertron earlier today."

The new information sent shivers of despair and fear for Jazz down Prowl's back-struts. The anger that followed hard on their wake brightened his optics and diverted power to his weapon's systems. He'd expected Shockwave to survive his assault. He hadn't expected him to escape the scope of Prowl's justice entirely. He shook the dark emotions off, his finger-servos caressing Jazz's spark chamber in a comforting gesture that would shock him were he aware of it. His tactical processor assured him that there would be other opportunities, other encounters with the Decepticon scientist, and Prowl would be ready for them. For now, nothing was more important than the half-naked spark under his servo-tips.

The tactician tilted his helm and focussed back on the medic beside him. His battle-computer needed more data before it could come up with anything even vaguely useful.

"Can I assume Starscream has returned?"

This time Ratchet's reply was a snort of genuine amusement. "Even Megatron knows better than to leave those two together unsupervised, especially as far away as Cybertron. He'd either be short a lieutenant or nursing the knife in his back within klicks." The medic leaned back in his chair. "Yes, Screamer's back on Earth. Prime's expecting a call from him anytime now. Megatron might not be interested in our Seeker guests, but Starscream is their trine-leader after all."

Prowl's helm jerked in a small nod. He let it fall back, considering. A Decepticon scientist, and a sneaky one at that. His information might be incomplete, but the chances that Starscream knew nothing at all of Shockwave's techniques were vanishingly small. And the Autobots already had quite the lever to use against the Decepticon Air Commander. Now Prowl needed a fulcrum. He hesitated, running a few dozen variations on the same basic scenario through his battle computer before speaking.

"Get Optimus down here." Prowl was too tired to care that it came out as an order. He was weary, hurting in a way he couldn't articulate and more than ready for this ordeal to be over. Those same emotions echoed back to him from the box he held, with almost overwhelming force. "He and I need to talk."

* * *

The thick, turgid atmosphere of Earth shouldn't feel _this_ good under his wings. He was a Seeker, sparked to soar through the dark skies of Cybertron. He should be cutting through his homeworld's thin air, turning on a whim and with a skill and beauty that left grounders deep in awe.

He turned, subconscious routines altering the pitch of his ailerons and adjusting his tailplane to keep him steady. His jet engines – Cybertronian technology mimicking and improving upon primitive human tech – roared and sent a pleasant throb through his frame. Tattered clouds whipped across his cockpit and played across the sensors that lined his wings, teasing and caressing them. After an orn trapped in Darkmount, nursing his pride and surveying Cybertron from the viewports of his gilded prison, even Earth felt good.

It would feel better with Thundercracker on his right wingtip and Skywarp on his left.

Starscream screamed to the sky, the furious sound whipped away to dissipate amidst the vortices and ice-crystals of his con trail. Megatron's pretext for banishing him in favour of Shockwave had been weaker even than usual – an insult to the Seeker's honour. He'd expected to return to Earth irate, had in fact nursed his anger through his admittedly-brief exile. He hadn't expected to return to find a Decepticon force reeling from an insanely-fierce, _Autobot-initiated_ skirmish. He certainly hadn't expected to find his trine-mates captive.

Neither his warlord nor Megatron's telepathic third-in-command had been willing to expand on why, and the idiot coneheads would only babble about the Autobot Prowl in a manner that made no sense whatsoever. There was only one explanation: his trine had got caught up in whatever fool scheme had sent Shockwave crashing out of favour this time. Starscream hadn't needed Soundwave's heavy hints or the way Megatron's optics slid away from his to realise that. Leaving them languishing in Autobot custody was probably Megatron's way of washing his servos of the whole business. If he thought that would be the end of the affair, then he still had a lot to learn about his Seeker second. For the moment, though, Starscream had business to take care of.

The red and white Seeker streaked die-straight into Autobot airspace. His navigational array beeped a warning, and he dismissed it with a snarl. He didn't need a chart to find his way along the thread of uncertainty and worry in his spark that he recognised as Skywarp. The hails that lit his com system went unanswered too. He had nothing to say to the Autobots, save for a single, pulsed code he transmitted, declaring a short-term ceasefire. If he was going to talk, it would be to Prime, in person.

Starscream transformed in mid-air and landed thrusters-first on the plain outside the Ark. The thump of his impact echoed off the hillside above the Autobot ship, rattling the landscape and sending gravel spilling across the half-buried engines.

He sent a pulse of shaped irritation in Skywarp's direction, an order for quiet that his most trying trine-mate knew well. Skywarp stilled, burst excitement and relief in his direction, and then stilled again as Starscream had directed. Emotion still trickled through, but with less stinging power. Starscream's wings flexed and then settled into their root mode. That was better. Without Skywarp providing a constant contrast, the silence – not absence, but silence – of Thundercracker in the trine-bond was less of a distraction.

With armed Autobots streaming from the entrance to the Ark, and Prime at their forefront, Starscream didn't need distractions.

He stood tall, arms folded across his cockpit, foot tapping against the ground.

"Prime, I demand the return of my Seekers _immediately_!"

The fact that he stood alone, without a task-force ready to raid the Ark… The fact that Megatron refused to commit forces, or even infiltrators to assess Thundercracker's condition… The fact that the crossed arms were a deliberately non-hostile gesture, taking his null-rays out of the equation… His arrogance acknowledged none of those inconvenient facts. In the face of his confident demand, even the Autobots might be made to overlook them.

The neutral, unimpressed expression behind Prime's battle-mask banished any hope of that. Starscream's optics scanned the assembled mechs, his battle-trained subroutines searching out the biggest threats in an automatic survey. Ironhide stood at his Prime's shoulder, his crossed arms mirroring Starscream's own. The Autobots' ops mechs – the vanishing blue one and the irritating yellow pest – were side by side off to the right, wary but watchful. Their commander, the Autobots' TIC, was conspicuous by his absence, as was the SIC Prowl, and Starscream's optics automatically kept up their roving search. Even without Dirge's wild stories, both mechs were too dangerous and tricky to leave unaccounted for. The medic was missing too. And while the dark red front-liner was scowling from his place beside the Ops mechs, his accursed yellow twin was nowhere to be seen.

Starscream's wings twitched, his backplates crawling as if the missing mechs were circling behind him in preparation for an attack. He didn't need his outstretched sensors to tell him he was imagining it. He flicked his wings, more deliberately this time, trying to shake out the tension that was the unholy child of his own paranoia and the angst still reaching him from Skywarp.

Prime studied him, silent and stern as he watched the Seeker squirm. Starscream scowled in return, impatient to hear the Autobots terms and get to work persuading either Megatron or Optimus, or even the pair of them, to yield as necessary.

"Well?"

"No."

Starscream stared. "_Excuse me?_"

"No. I have no intention of releasing either Skywarp or Thundercracker. They will face the consequences of their actions." Prime paused a beat, his optics thoughtful above the battlemask. "Assuming Thundercracker recovers."

Starscream flinched. The throwaway comment was more ominous than any threat he'd heard from the Prime. The satisfied rumble and angry mutterings from the Autobots arrayed in front of him almost forced the Seeker to take a step back in sheer astonishment. He held his ground, but his arms dropped away from his cockpit, moving to hang ready at his sides. His own temper flared, if only to drown out the fear crying out for his attention.

"How _dare_ you? How dare you think you can hold Seekers captive in this… this…" he waved a blue hand towards the crashed Ark, searching for words, "this _hole_ in the ground?"

Ironhide had moved to once again mirror Starscream's posture, standing ready. The Autobot laughed and there was no humour in the harsh sound.

"Who said anything about captivity?"

Prime's rumble might have been rebuke or agreement. The tall mech took a step forward, encroaching into the undeclared strip of neutral ground between the Autobots and their visitor. His blue optics burned cold and, for the first time in vorns, Starscream could see anger behind the fire.

"Mechs on Cybertron have been extinguished, or even sent to the smelting pits, for crimes less severe."

The flier's energon ran cold.

"You wouldn't _do_ that!"

Optimus Prime took another step forward, and Starscream had never been quite so aware of the Autobot leader's height and bulk. His pedes didn't move, but even he wasn't sure if it was courage or fear that held him frozen in place. He cowered, his shoulder's dropping as his processor cast grey shadows and glowing red optics over the looming Prime. He cycled his optics, dismissing the spectre of Megatron. Prime's icy glare was more than enough to freeze him in place.

"Starscream." The Prime's voice wasn't loud, but it rolled across the barren landscape and off the hillsides behind the Ark. Even the other Autobots seemed startled into silence, unaccustomed to seeing such menace in their leader. "In the last half-orn, mechs under my command have seriously damaged numerous Decepticons. They have come close to destroying one of Soundwave's cassettes, and caused Shockwave an injury that threatened his spark. They have infiltrated your base at will, and forced a rapid and pained Decepticon retreat, not once but twice. More than that, my mechs have forced Thundercracker out of the sky, inflicting critical damage, and fired at him while grounded, compromising his spark support systems. They have seriously damaged your second trine-mate and coerced him not just into betraying Megatron, but into risking his own spark and processor."

Prime leaned forward, brushing hard against the shocked Seeker's energy field. Now Starscream didn't have to infer Optimus Prime's anger from what he could see, or listen to the growl in Prime's voice. He felt it.

"Tell me, Starscream, what makes you think I'm not completely serious?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"I came here under promise of ceasefire!" Starscream shouted the words, stumbling backwards and away from the furious Prime looming over him. Only then did he realise that the Autobots had never acknowledged his signal or confirmed the truce. He'd grown so accustomed to the 'bots here seizing any opportunity to avoid a fight that he'd been caught out like a sparkling, the one time they hadn't.

The laughter that rose from the gathered Autobots told him they were well aware of that.

"He doesn't deserve a ceasefire!" That was one of the mini-bots. Was it Gears? Or Cliffjumper? Starscream had never made the effort to learn their designations. He couldn't name more than half the mechs now bristling with weapons and muttering ever louder for his energon. "The Cons have to pay, Optimus! For Jazz… and now Prowl too…!"

Starscream blinked, his optics cycling through a reboot. He stole a glance at the mech who'd shouted, before turning worried optics back towards the Prime towering above him. The cry explained a lot, and, for the first time, he felt a serious terror for his own spark. Now he knew why the usually-cheerful Ironhide looked so grim, and why the Prime might show such emotion. Starscream had never known Optimus Prime to be less than noble. He'd never seen the Prime lose his second and third in command, two of his closest companions, either.

Starscream dropped his voice, a familiar whine entering his screeching tones. He held Prime's optics, scarlet to blue, with a desperate earnestness.

"Prime, be reasonable," he murmured, trying to keep his words between the two of them... although there was no avoiding Prime's scowling red shadow. "I wasn't even here. I don't know what's been going on, but I had no part in it." There was plenty else Prime could accuse him of, and they both knew it. Starscream was clinging to the hope that Optimus Prime was too decent to take advantage like that, even in the face of such loss. It said something for the situation that he was far from sure.

A warm-up cycle tickled through Starscream's thrusters. If he fled now, would Prime allow it? Surely Optimus had to see the injustice of taking a mech who'd come in good part captive. Crouched as he was, cowering in front of the Prime, he was in position to launch skywards, and for a long nano-klick he was braced to do just that.

His thrusters cycled down, his wings drooping behind him. Skywarp still tugged at the trine-bond. Thundercracker still failed to do so, and Starscream felt his vents stutter as he remembered Prime's litany. A spark system injury? Strong and insistent as Starscream's self-protective instincts were, he wasn't leaving here without at least knowing if his trine-mates were beyond hope.

Prime studied him for a long moment, before stepping back.

"We have a truce," the taller mech declared, to the general dismay of his troops. He leaned back in, startling Starscream just as the Seeker was starting to relax. "For now."

Starscream forced a sneer onto his faceplates to cover the relief. "For now."

"Sideswipe, Bumblebee, please accompany our guest to the brig."

"_What?!_" Starscream's null-rays charged before he could even consider the wisdom of that move. The whine of a dozen charging weapons pointed in his direction soon reminded him of it. Only Prime's raised hand defused the situation.

"I had assumed you wished to exercise visitation rights as the prisoners' bond-mate." A raised brow-ridge made the Decepticon sub-commander feel like a foolish child. It wasn't a feeling he liked. He snarled in response.

"I am their trine-_leader_," he stressed.

Prime gave him a far too knowing look.

"Indeed," was all the mech said.

* * *

"Starscream!" Skywarp's faceplates brightened at the sight of him. Starscream's optics scanned his trine-mate in a quick but thorough survey. The Seeker's black and lavender plating was carbon-scored and marked here and there with dried energon. All the chaos and pain of battle was written in his filthy armour, but Skywarp's red optics glowed bright in the dimmed brig, and the Seeker jumped up at the sight of him with fluent, easy movement.

Starscream stared and then put his hands on his hips, his voice rising strident above the mutter of Autobots behind him.

"What the _frag_ did you _do_?"

"Shockwave! It was Shockwave!"

"Shockwave could not have achieved his aims without your compliance." That was Prime, tone unusually cold. Skywarp slumped, his optics downcast. Starscream bridled.

"Have you ever _tried_ saying _no_ to the mech?" he demanded, spinning on the spot to confront the self-righteous Autobot leader. "What did you _expect_ him to do?"

Prime stood behind him, Ironhide leaning on the closed door to the brig. The front-liner twins were off to one side, the yellow menace apparently having been on guard duty down here already. The other yellow mech, the scout Bumblebee, seemed to have stayed outside the door, ensuring their privacy and perhaps holding off his compatriots. The escorted march through the Ark had been redolent with a hostility Starscream had never associated with Autobots. Even after Prime's hint, he was still far from sure just what his trine-mates had done to inspire it.

Optimus Prime gave him a look that was almost pitying. "I expect every mech to take responsibility for their own morality, and not to follow orders blindly or without question."

Starscream's fists clenched at his sides. The most frustrating thing about Prime's naivety was that it was probably genuine. He sneered, insults already gathering in his vocaliser. They never emerged.

_~Star…~_ He was close enough now that the trine-bond could carry words and more. Close enough that his trinemates were impossible to ignore. There was no hiding from the full force of the angst in Skywarp's spark. _~T.C….~_

Starscream had avoided looking at the second cell, and the still form on the berth there. Now he couldn't resist. He turned, unable to prevent the hiccup in his vents and the whine from his thrusters as he saw his second trine-mate. If Skywarp looked battle-weary, Thundercracker looked as if he'd been swallowed by the tide of war, chewed and spat out. His beautiful blue plating was ragged and torn, hidden beneath a layer of dirt and streaked with energon where it wasn't replaced entirely by dull grey patches. The large, grey expanse spreading over his chest-plates and the bottom half of his cockpit was almost as terrifying as the low, low system activity levels Starscream's sensors reported.

"Why isn't this mech in your repair bay? How _dare_ you _lecture_ us on treatment of prisoners! I am horrified – _horrified!_ – by…"

"Med-bay's occupied."

The experience of a thousand battles had made Starscream hyper-sensitised to the voices of those terrible twins. Right now though Sideswipe wasn't trying to keep his voice down or conceal his sarcasm. Ironhide slapped the other red mech upside the head, not with the violence Megatron's second was conditioned to expect, but more as a gentle chastisement for speaking out of turn.

Prime glanced at them both before nodding.

"Perhaps, Starscream, it is time we discussed the single condition under which I may be convinced to release your trine-mates into your custody."

The Seeker was still fuming, his wingtips twitching as he resisted the urge to blast his way to Thundercracker's side and to the Pit with the consequences. He glared the question at Prime, not trusting his vocaliser.

"As far as the majority of this crew know, my third-in-command, Jazz, was deactivated in an unprovoked attack half an orn ago. Prowl was seriously injured in battle after capturing your trine-mates, and remains under intensive medical care."

Starscream folded his arms across his cockpit, his analytic mind ticking over. The story wasn't any worse than the ones he'd already imagined. If Prowl had publicly identified Thundercracker and Skywarp as the killers, then it was a wonder they were even still alive.

If that were the end of the story, Prime wouldn't be talking about releasing them.

"Okay, so that's what the peons know," he agreed, waving a hand to dismiss the hoard of ground-crawling nobodies that made up the Autobot ranks. "What do the mechs standing in front of me know?"

Prime tilted his helm, one hand coming up to rub at his battlemask.

"What do you remember about what happened to the Combaticons?"

The question shocked him. His optics cycled through a reset. Then the Seeker's mouth-plates twisted into a sneer of distaste. Shockwave's idea of interesting research had always strained the bounds of taste and honour, that particular project more so than most.

"Enough to make me wish for a memory flush," he conceded.

Then Skywarp hit him with a full Earth-week of memories.

"Starscream?"

The Seeker clung to the arm steadying him, wheezing as he tried to control his racing vents. His turbines whined. His optics fritzed, images and memories he'd never experienced playing on his inner screens.

"Hoist, report."

"He looks okay physically, Prime. I think it might be a bond thing."

_~Star? Star? I didn't mean to. It just kind of spilled over and I wanted to tell you about it and my coms are down and you kind of needed to know and don't be mad...~_

Only Skywarp could sound simultaneously apologetic, worried and winsome. Starscream shook off Prime's hand and that of the mech beside him… and how had the Autobots' reserve medic got there so fast anyway? Wait. He had a better question. He spun on his heel thrusters to glare at his trine-mate.

"Are you fragging _insane_? You went _along_ with that?"

_~Ah…went along with Shockwave, or went along with Prowl?~_

_~Either! Both!~_ Starscream snarled, not sure himself that he meant it. The image of Thundercracker's smoking chest-plates returned to him, and the memory of a helpless Autobot spark confined to a box. Would he have done the same in Skywarp's place? _~Should have called me.~_

_~You weren't there.~ _Skywarp's wings twitched and the words burst out of him aloud as well as through the trine-bond. "You weren't there!"

Guilt flickered across Starscream's expression, come and gone in a nanoklick. It lingered longer on Skywarp's faceplates and in the slump of his wings. Starscream shook his helm, trying to dislodge the little voice that whispered that Skywarp was right. His trine-mates were fine fliers, good fighters, but not strong. He should have been there.

He was almost grateful when Optimus Prime's voice broke the moment.

"I assume we're missing something?"

"No more than usual." The snark came instinctively. He glared at the Autobot leader, his sharp processor already mapping out what was coming. "I take it they're still functioning?"

Prime frowned, glancing between the two Seekers before nodding slowly. His voice was once again that of the unreadable and angry Prime Starscream had encountered outside the Ark.

"Do not doubt: if either Jazz or Prowl is extinguished, I will ensure that Skywarp and Thundercracker pay the full penalty."

"You expect _me_ to fix Shockwave's mess?"

"Not up to it?"

"How _dare_ you question my competence!" Starscream met Sunstreaker's optics, sneer for sneer. He waved a single hand in dismissal, deliberately turning his back on the arrogant front-liner. Huffing air through his vents, the Seeker resigned himself to the inevitable. One way or another, he wasn't getting out of here without seeing the stricken Autobot officers. That didn't mean he had to play entirely to Prime's rules. "I need access to Skywarp's sensor scans and other data. Since you've _oh-so-cleverly_ disabled his comms, it'll have to be a hard-line connection."

Ironhide scoffed, the tall red Autobot crossing his arms. "You expect us just to let you in with your buddy there?"

He wasn't alone in his scepticism. Prime raised an uneasy brow-ridge. "Starscream, I don't see…"

"Were any of _you_ there when Shockwave was working? Did any of _you_ see just what he _did_ to your saboteur? _No?_" Starscream slid open a port on his wrist, a high-density data cable snaking out into the palm of his hand. "Well then…?"

"Sunstreaker, lower the energy bars on Skywarp's cell to 40%."

Prime's order was more than he might have permitted, and less than Starscream was expecting, even from this cold Prime. Skywarp winced and then shrugged, resigned. He held out one arm, flinching – both physically and in the trine-bond – as he extended the wrist through the stinging energy field between the dulled bars.

Long blue fingers intertwined with black, even so slight a touch bringing both a comfort they'd never admit to aloud. Their wrists pressed together, cables making contact with ports. Skywarp's firewalls opened to his trine-leader, the data files he'd mentioned already packaged and ready for him. Starscream checked them over and set them to download within nano-klicks. Then he set to work. There wasn't much time before the Autobots became suspicious.

_~Starscream?~_ Skywarp's nervousness was tangible both over the trine-bond and the hard-line. Starscream ignored it, already busy deep in the other Seeker's systems. _~What are you doing?~_

_~Defragging your navigation array~_ Starscream frowned in concentration, dismayed by just how thoroughly Sunstreaker's impulsive action had mangled Skywarp's systems. The black Seeker could still jump to Thundercracker's side, or Starscream's, the trine-bond acting as its own beacon. With his database scrambled, any other warp could just as easily throw him outside the atmosphere, into the deep ocean, or, worse still, into Earth's molten core. Setting the recalibration algorithm running, Starscream transferred over the handful of coordinates he kept to Skywarp's level of precision: their quarters back at base, the bridge to Cybertron and a few of their more secret safe rendezvous points. It wasn't much, but it would at least give his trine-mates an escape route.

"That's long enough!" Ironhide's hand on Starscream's shoulder vent jolted him back to reality and almost jerked their joined wrists sideways into the bars. They disengaged in a hurry, Skywarp drawing his arm back to his chest and cradling the stinging plating, Starscream glaring furiously at the red Autobot.

He turned the expression into a dismissive smile. Whether he knew it or not, Ironhide was right.

_~Be ready. When I give the word, grab Thundercracker and warp him out of here.~_

_~But T.C….~_

_~You saw Ratchet working on him, and Wheeljack. They have a medic watching him, and Prime's still Prime even when he's angry. I'm betting most of the damage left is cosmetic.~_

Skywarp was silent for a few klicks. _~What if you're wrong?~_

Starscream glanced at him, and couldn't stop his eyes slipping over to his third trine-mate's still frame. _~You'd better hope I'm not. One way or another, I don't see this going well.~_

Straightening, Starscream turned a cool expression on the waiting Prime.

"Well then? Are you going to take me to your repair bay, or not?"

* * *

"Sideswipe!"

It wasn't that Ratchet disagreed with the front-liner's actions. The gleeful sneer that had spread across Starscream's faceplates as he entered the repair bay just begged for a fist to wipe it clean. Ratchet might well have obliged, if Sideswipe hadn't. Even so, there was a time and a place, and this wasn't it.

Sideswipe shrugged, flexing his finger-servos to loosen them after the blow. Starscream just scowled, all too aware of Ironhide's blaster covering him against any retaliation and Prime close behind. Ratchet glared at the group clustered just inside his domain and tried to hide his painful mixture of hope and irritation. None of this was ideal, not with Jazz weakening and Prowl once again curled tight around the box, hovering between awareness and a recharge that bordered on stasis.

"Ironhide, out!" Ratchet waited just long enough for Sideswipe to retrieve his blaster from subspace before issuing the order.

The elder mech glanced at Starscream with chagrin but didn't argue. He left, rubbing his chest-plates and casting a worried look at Prowl on his way through the door. Ratchet took the time to check on the rest before nodding acceptance of their presence. Starscream and Sideswipe were both wincing, protected by their own spark-bonds but still uncomfortable with the thick energy fields in the room. Prime was as implacable as ever. The Matrix burned bright enough to swamp outside influences, and the pain Ratchet read in his friend's expression was more emotional than physical.

Looking over at the tactician curled on his side on the med-berth, door-wings trembling, Ratchet shared it. Around Prowl, machines beeped and chimed, regulating his vents and feeding energon into his lines. The spark-support systems were doing all they could to ease the burden on Prowl's overstrained spark, but they couldn't keep it burning indefinitely.

The medic extended a single finger-servo, jerking it in Starscream's direction and then at his own pedes.

"You, over here."

"I will not be ordered!" Starscream's actions gave the lie to his words. The Decepticon's face was twisted with disgust and just the faintest suggestion of horror. He edged deeper into the energy field, his complaint dropping to a hissed whisper as he did so.

Ratchet didn't have time for pride: the Seeker's or his own.

"Stop talking slag and tell me how to fix this."

The sneer had faded from Starscream's face as he approached the berth. Prowl's optics lit with a dim glow, the tactician studying his unlikely visitor.

"Starscream."

"Prowl."

Both mechs were cool, controlled. Their optics met with a look formed in equal parts of mutual respect and mutual loathing. The Seeker's wings twitched, his arms folding across his cockpit. He studied the vulnerable mech, the thorn in his side for half an eternity. Ratchet and the other Autobots might have faded into nothing.

"Tell me why I shouldn't just kill you now."

Prowl vented slowly, his optics dimming before refocusing on the Seeker. "For the only reasons that matter, the only reasons any of us have left: to protect the things you care about most." Starscream snorted, his façade of indifference belied by the subconscious glance he threw towards the distant brig. Prowl let his helm drop back to the berth, the light fading from his optics. Ratchet was checking the medical monitors when the tired mech spoke again, optics still dimmed. "And because, despite everything you've become, you still remember why joined the Decepticons. And _you_ wouldn't have done this."

Prowl's readings dropped, just a fraction, but enough for Ratchet to be sure he was oblivious to Starscream's indignant spluttering. The Seeker stood with fists clenched and helm tilted back, cursing Megatron, Shockwave and all their works in lyrical Cybertronian.

Ratchet didn't hesitate. His wrench swung in a smooth arc, not hard enough to do any real harm, but inflicting a blow sufficient to jerk Starscream out of his self-indulgent anger. The restless, fluctuating spark throbbing weakly next to Prowl's didn't need the conflict.

Starscream vented hard, his wing-tips flaring, but his agitated energy field pulled tight back against his armour. The Seeker scientist turned to glare at Ratchet, and at Wheeljack beside him.

"Your problem is frame rejection?"

Out of the corner of his optics, Ratchet saw Prime relax a fraction. Ratchet was careful not to let his own relief show. He held his council, letting Wheeljack answer for him. The engineer's vocal indicators flashed a dull grey.

"Even if he was stable enough to transfer, we couldn't put a spark that active in a cold frame. The shock…"

Starscream waved a blue hand, dismissing the unnecessary explanation. Ratchet leaned forward, studying the thoughtful Seeker. "How did Shockwave plan to do it?"

"What makes you think he had any interest in reframing anyone?"

Ratchet's energon ran cold. "The Combaticons…?"

Starscream's bark of laughter rang out loud in the silent repair bay. "Megatron was about to execute those treacherous slaggers. Do you think anyone cared much if Shockwave's experiments crashed and burned?"

Prime rumbled from his place near the door. To Ratchet, the distress was obvious. Starscream, looking up at the mech looming over them, must have seen anger.

"Wait! Wait! The plan was always to keep them alive. Shockwave put them all deep in stasis lock before boxing them. Assuming the sparks hold stable at that level they can go back in a frame on minimal power." Starscream's rapid explanation trailed off, the scientist frowning down at the laden berth in front of him. "This… keeping him aware… this is an abomination."

Ratchet sagged. He could hear the strained whine of Wheeljack's systems close behind him. Sideswipe took a step further into the room, his fists clenched.

"Why… why didn't he do the same with Jazz?"

Ratchet spared the twin warrior a sympathetic glance. "A spark at stasis levels wouldn't resonate strongly enough to activate the personality components or read the memory nodes. Shockwave needed him stunned to survive the initial transfer, but active enough to interrogate." He dimmed his optics, rubbing his brow-ridge with tired finger-servos. "Damn it." He glanced up towards Optimus, where his Prime stood just inside the repair bay. "It's a frame and processor that dictates when to drop a mech into stasis – the spark follows their lead. How the slag do we get Jazz into deep stasis without a frame to guide his spark down to that level?"

Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps a reaction to the negative energy that Ratchet couldn't keep entirely to himself. An alarm chimed, Jazz's spark flaring in a restless search for someone or something it probably wouldn't know if it found it. Prowl's spark activity kicked up in response. The tactician murmured something too quiet to make out. His finger-servos flexed, their tips brushing Jazz's naked spark chamber before both settled.

Starscream studied them. He turned, shoulder-vents half-masking his expression, and scanned the two slightly-offset spark-beats on the monitor. There was no compassion on his face, only a mask of scientific interest. He nodded in Prowl's direction.

"I assume you at least had the _minimal_ processor capacity required to consider putting _him_ under?"

"Jazz's spark will follow just about so far, then it starts to fluctuate and break the connection." Ratchet couldn't hide his shudder, or his unease at telling Starscream these things. "Last time, we almost lost them both. We had to bring Prowl up fast to reassure Jazz."

Starscream dimmed his optics for a moment as if in thought. "So you need some way to affect his spark directly? Some method to force his spark into a minimal energy state without frame and processor mediation."

Wheeljack sighed, his vocal indicators throbbing dully. "Do you have any idea how long it'll take to invent something like that?"

Starscream stood with his arms crossed, the finger-servos of one hand tapping against the weapon barrel on the other arm in a restless motion. His helm had been bowed. Now he raised it, and they could all see the small, smug smile that played across his face-plates.

"Why, you know, I rather think I _do_."

And that was when Starscream spun on the spot and fired at Prowl and Jazz from point-blank range.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.

Too slow. Sideswipe was just too slow.

His scream was lost amidst the alarms as he dived forward, Prime by his side, each of them seizing an arm or a wing, and Prime wrapping one strong arm around the Seeker's throat. They were too late. Already the monitors were showing red, Ratchet and Wheeljack moving with frantic urgency around the fallen officers.

Sideswipe and Prime hauled Starscream backwards. Somewhere in Sideswipe's spark, Sunstreaker was snarling about Seekers escaping. His own stunned and guilt-stricken thoughts ricocheted back across their bond and Sideswipe felt his twin freeze in shock. He was frozen himself. He held tight to the Seeker still in his grasp, and felt Prime vibrating with anger and grief beside him.

"Let me go." Starscream snarled the words, his attempts to shrug off his captors only making them tighten their grips. "This needs to be done quickly."

The red front-liner choked. "What the frag…? After that…?"

"Do you _imbeciles_ even _begin_ to understand how my null-rays _work_?"

How they worked? Sideswipe knew only what he'd witnessed on the battlefield more times than he could count. They dropped a mech into stasis faster than anything else Sideswipe had ever seen, fast enough to deactivate an injured mech through spark-shock alone. He was pretty sure even Ratchet was hazy on the mechanism. He'd heard the medic curse Starscream's name often enough, when he or Sunstreaker was the one struggling their way back to consciousness.

"Optimus!" Ratchet's shout broke through Sideswipe's moment of confusion. Wheeljack had broken off from Prowl, fussing over Jazz's grey frame for reasons that escaped the front-liner. Ratchet was still bent over the tactician and the box, fingers flying faster than Sideswipe could see. "I need more servos. Trained ones. Let him help!"

Sideswipe wasn't sure who was most surprised. His servos dropped away, leaving Starscream in Prime's grip. Optimus hesitated a little longer, his large finger servos making the Seeker's wings creak under the strain.

"Slag it, Prime!"

Optimus Prime's grip slipped away. Starscream lunged forward. The Seeker's strident voice rose in a stream of barbed insults and instructions that mingled with Ratchet's deeper tones, the two of them lost in opaque technical terminology. Alarms from the medical sensors still filled the air. The thick, uncomfortable sensation Sideswipe had become accustomed to was gone, even the residual charge fading fast. Jazz no longer filled the room with his vibrant energy. Prowl's calm presence no longer pressed in against the front-liner's senses.

But Ratchet hadn't given up.

Sideswipe's optics scanned the medical readouts, searching frantically for some clue as to what was happening. A lifetime spent under Ratchet's energon scalpel himself, or watching the medic struggle for his brother's spark, had taught the warrior more than he wanted to know about how to read those red-tinted displays.

"Prowl's still alive," he whispered the words aloud in his surprise, and saw Optimus glance sharply in his direction. He forced himself to go on, hoping desperately that he wasn't misinterpreting what he saw. "Those are the readings for emergency deep stasis."

Of course, essentially the only thing that would trigger stasis that deep that quickly was spark failure. If Prowl's spark output had dropped hard and fast enough to trigger his frame's emergency response, then he was in trouble. The stasis cycle would hold him stable for a while, but sooner or later, it would break and that bright spark would gutter. It gave Ratchet a little time, perhaps, if a solution was there to be found. If…

Sideswipe's optics slid reluctantly to the second bank of monitors, energon already running cold in his lines as he heard an ominous, persistent note develop in the alarms there. His vents choked, his processor not wanting to deal with the input as he saw the readings settle to a still, flat line.

His optics off-lined.

A heavy hand fell to his shoulder, Prime's finger servos squeezing his plating.

"Sideswipe, look."

The front-liner's optics rebooted reluctantly, his obedience to his Prime overriding his emotional turmoil. The berth bearing Jazz's grey frame had been pushed close enough to touch Prowl's, machines hooked to it driving air through its vents and warming its inactive systems. Medic, engineer and scientist fussed around the pair of berths, moving with quick, precise movements.

Ratchet held something in cupped servos, lifting it slowly and carefully towards Jazz's forcefully animated remains. Wheeljack and Starscream stilled, blue light and red mingling as they watched the medic with sharp optics.

No one moved. No one even dared vent until Ratchet's servos lowered out of sight into Jazz's gaping chest cavity.

The click sounded loud in the empty med-bay.

Ratchet drew in a shuddering vent.

A third bank of sensors and readouts began to chirp a warning note.

And Jazz's grey plating began to flush with just the barest hints of black and white.

Ratchet's servos began to move again, this time across Jazz's frame, closing plating, adjusting connectors and hooking up feeds and extra sensor rigs. Wheeljack moved around him and with him, completing work Ratchet started and taking on some of the easier tasks, drifting over to work on Prowl from time to time. It was a full breem and a half before Ratchet spun away from his patients without warning, his fist closing around Starscream's neck assembly and choking off his energon lines.

"You built a weapon that acts on a mech's _spark_?"

"No wonder we never figured it out." Wheeljack glanced up from his work, his interested tone a wry contrast to Ratchet's snarl. "All the internal logs we looked at were recording frame activity."

"Because only a mad-mech would use something that _insanely dangerous_ as a _non-lethal_ weapon!"

Starscream sneered, twisting and breaking Ratchet's hold with the skill expected in the Decepticons' second in command. Sideswipe tensed in readiness, but the Seeker threw up his arms in disgust, not attack.

"Who said anything about non-lethal? I wanted to put enemies out of the battle _fast_, I never claimed I wanted them _alive_."

"Ratchet." Prowl's low rumble filled the room. "Report."

Ratchet scowled at his Prime.

"This lunatic dropped Jazz – Prowl and Jazz both – into spark-shock stasis. It's a miracle they didn't extinguish."

"Please! Skywarp gave me the calibration Shockwave gave _him_. You both wanted the slagging saboteur stable enough for transfer. I knew what I was doing." He glared at the frame, silent and barely shaded. "Now it's your turn. Do you?"

Ratchet turned back to his still-fragile patient, swearing in a steady stream of muttered words. Prime gave the Seeker an angry look, the big mech still shaken.

"And should I assume was there a reason we couldn't be warned?"

"As if you'd have let me fire null-rays in here," Starscream sneered. "There wasn't _time_ for arguments, and I sure as slag wasn't going to give you a null-ray to _analyse_. Understand this, Prime: I didn't do this for your second and third, or out of the _goodness of my spark_. I did it to stop my trine being _hunted_ for something they had no control over." He held his helm high, servos resting on his hips. "So much for _honour_, Prime. So much for _justice_!"

Optimus Prime held still for a long moment, before nodding at him.

"Your trine-mates are free to leave."

"Ah…" Optics settled on Sideswipe from every direction. "Sunny says they, ah, already have?" he offered tentatively.

Prime shook his helm, expression unreadable behind his battle-mask. "Sideswipe, please accompany Starscream to the exit and allow him to leave the Ark."

"But, Prime…!"

"Starscream entered under an agreement of truce, Sideswipe. I will not break that."

"And make sure Thundercracker rests!" Ratchet didn't look up from his patients to issue the order. "We spent too slagging long repairing him for you to undo all our hard work."

Starscream glared at the medic's back. He moved to the door, turning an expectant expression on the front-liner. Sideswipe moved with him, his pedes dragging as he threw an anxious glance back over his shoulder at the med-berths. Jazz and Prowl were both still weak and in a critical condition, their readings edged with red. Prowl's chest-plates were closed now, and Jazz's open barely wide enough to let slender wires trail up to the monitors. Optics and visor lay dark, the vents and cycles of both frames almost entirely reliant on the machines around them.

If Sunstreaker was in this condition, Sideswipe would never leave his side. Giving Starscream a rough shove to get him moving, the front-liner consoled himself with one indisputable fact: in all the times it had been Sides or his twin under Ratchet's servos, the medic had never once let them down.

* * *

"Ratchet."

The medic jerked from recharge to fully-aware in nano-klicks, his automatic routines bringing him online and readying his medical algorithms for any challenge.

His internal displays lit before his optics rebooted. He scanned the medical monitors urgently, relief and disappointment mingling when he found them unchanged.

Venting a sigh, Ratchet blinked his way past the readouts to gaze up at the orange ceiling plates above his berth. It took him a moment to remember what had woken him, and a moment more to brace himself before finding out why.

"Red Alert?"

"Ratchet, you have visitors."

The security officer's com-voice was low and sombre, a far cry from the strident tones that would indicate his paranoia at work. Frowning, Ratchet let his powerful sensors extend, tapping into the medbay sensors to boost their range.

Pushing himself up to sit on the edge of his berth, Ratchet let his shoulders slump, shaking his helm.

"I'll deal with them," he sighed. "And, Red? Thank you."

The security mech signed off with a sigh of his own, returning to his night-cycle vigil. Ratchet stood, rubbing his chevron in weary dismay. By rights, Red Alert should have brigged and reported the twins for breaking into the repair bay. In any other circumstances, Ratchet would be storming from his quarters, through his office and into the bay proper, with wrench in hand. Not this time.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were the only mechs outside the Autobot officer corps who knew the truth of what happened in that clearing almost an orn before, in medbay four days ago and in the long joors since. They were still dealing with that knowledge, just as Ratchet and Red themselves were. That cut them slack, even this deep into the hours of darkness.

Medbay was still dimmed for the night-cycle, the light panels overhead dark. The only illumination spilled around the door of the side-room, casting long shadows across the metal deck. There was no sound from within, none of the noise and chaos Ratchet usually associated with a visit from the front-liner twins. He paused, palm resting against the cool metal door, and girded himself to enter.

Sideswipe sat perched on the edge of a berth, frowning as he searched through the kit bag he'd dumped beside him. His gold-clad twin brother stood over the second berth squeezed into the small room, shaking his helm as he contemplated the still frame in front of him.

Scowling to himself, Sunstreaker leaned forward, adding the finishing touches to the shine he'd put on Prowl's red chevron. Working in equal silence and with equal care, Sideswipe began to touch up the black paint-work on Jazz's limp right hand.

Ratchet stared, watching the boisterous, impulsive twins paint and polish their stasis-locked officers with the same delicate care a genitor might show to the smallest sparkling.

Prowl's frame was smooth after Ratchet's repairs, his paint scheme vibrant and elegant in its simplicity. Jazz's colours were still dull by comparison, his systems taking time to reclaim the long-vacant frame.

That either frame still held colour was testament to the skills of the Autobots' chief medic and the strength of the sparks they sheltered. Ratchet shuddered, remembering how close both had come to guttering under his finger servos. Expression pensive, he contemplated the two stasis-locked mechs, wondering even now if he'd done enough.

"How long?"

Sideswipe spoke without turning around, his question startling after the silence that came before.

"Until I try lifting the stasis blocks? Another three days."

"Not that."

Sunstreaker shot a glare over his shoulder, and Sideswipe shook his head. Ratchet found himself at the focus of two pairs of cool blue optics. The weary medic leaned back against the door frame, his arms folding across his chest. He should have known that wasn't the question Sideswipe was asking. The timeframe for releasing the protective blocks - for discovering whether or not the over-strained sparks had it in them to rouse a frame - was fixed in the processor of everyone involved. The twins were no more likely to forget than Prime, or Ironhide, or Ratchet himself.

Sunstreaker turned back to polishing, working now on Prowl's slack door-wings with an artist's care and a friend's gentle touch. His red-clad brother frowned, his crossed arms mirroring Ratchet's.

"When will Prime tell everyone Jazz is alive?"

It came out abrupt, pointed, almost as a challenge. Sidewipe knew it too. His frown turned stubborn and a touch defiant.

The focus of Ratchet's scowl shifted to the saboteur's black and white frame. He considered the dull lustre of Jazz's armour, and the other signs he'd seen, both good and bad. Sideswipe was looking for answers. His bright optics demanded them from Ratchet - pleading with the medic who'd pulled off so many miracles to accomplish just one more.

The truth was that all Ratchet's hard work could only do so much. The saboteur's spark was in control now - and despite four long days and longer nights of careful monitoring, the end result was still too close to call.

"He'll tell the crew when we know." Ratchet kept his voice soft, and saw both twins flinch. Jazz was framed now, his spark stable, but fundamentally the situation hadn't changed since the twins first stumbled across the secret. The crew was still missing their third in command. Ratchet still couldn't say if they'd ever get him back. "When we know - one way or the other."

The medic's engine grumbled, his system queasy as he turned his gaze on Prowl instead. The tactician was doing better. Ratchet was almost certain he'd come online smoothly, almost certain he'd be awake and back at work before the orn was out. He was far less certain how Prowl would fare beyond that point if the medic's worst fears were realised.

He calmed his systems, pulling his gruff persona into place as much in self defence as for the sake of the watching twins. Pulling a wrench from subspace, he let it play across his knuckles, aware of Sideswipe tracking it with wary optics.

"So, tell me why I shouldn't kick your sorry afts out of here, right now?"

It was amusing, and just a touch irritating, that both twins seemed to feel more comfortable with a wrench-wielding Ratchet than his soft-spoken alter-ego. The medic didn't have to force the growl into his voice.

"Well?"

Sideswipe grinned at him, still defiant, but with the challenge lingering in his optics.

"Don't you think Prowl deserves to walk out of medbay in tip-top condition?"

Ratchet raised a brow-ridge. "And you don't think I can handle that myself?"

The glance Sunstreaker threw in his direction, sweeping critically over his white and red plating, was frankly insulting. The yellow front-liner gave a half-shrug, running a servo down his own smooth armour and then turning back to Prowl. "Up to a point."

Ratchet couldn't help it. He snorted, his amusement showing in his bright optics. It faded as he turned back to Sideswipe, aware of the red-clad twin once more leaning over Jazz's still frame.

The front-liner exchanged a look with his brother, their expressions unreadable. Then Sideswipe looked down, not meeting Ratchet's optics as he spoke.

"And when Jazz saunters out of here after him, it's going to be with style."

Ratchet couldn't find it in himself to argue. He subspaced the wrench, stepping around Jazz's berth. A sigh gusted from his vents as he sat and extended one hand.

"Hand me a cloth then," he said and settled in for another shift in their long vigil.

* * *

"Prowl. I want you to stay calm. Just lie still and let your systems reset."

It was the second time in just over an orn that Prowl had woken to feel Ratchet's steady presence buffering his processor. The first time had been riven with grief and confusion, and the memory of that now was enough to send a pulse of energy to his up-cycling engines. Ratchet soothed it easily, keeping the tactician's systems level, and maintaining a tight hold over any excess in his processor activity. Prowl was grateful for the precaution, and grateful too that it wasn't strictly necessary.

Prowl was anxious and disoriented. He had no idea what had happened in the eight days his logs told him he'd been in stasis lock. His spark ached. But his memory was intact, his processor's core algorithms clear and far from looping. He knew that Ratchet was there to help him, knew he was safe in the medic's repair bay and knew what was important.

"How's Jazz?" he asked, angling his door-wings against the cushions supporting them, trying to get a better feel for the saboteur's nearby spark resonance even before his optics lit and focused.

Leaning over him, Ratchet sighed. Prowl half expected the medic to stop him as he pushed himself upright on the med-berth and swung his legs over the side. Instead Ratchet merely extended servos to support him, steadying the tactician as he finished his reboot, processed the repairs made while he was offline and reset his gyroscopic stabilisation.

It felt good, and somewhat unfamiliar, for Prowl to be fully fuelled and his systems tuned to near perfection. The internal logs reporting new bearings in his chest-plates, not to mention the repair of a dozen minor dents and abrasions, relieved any concern he might have had about his own condition. Instead, he stared across the bay to the door beside Ratchet's office. The side-room screened its occupant from casual observation, but its door stood open, a narrow gap facing the newly-awakened tactician.

Jazz's frame was whole, repainted and finished with a care that suggested the twins' involvement. He lay still on the polished metal of the med-berth, surrounded by machines that ticked and whirred in a near-constant, low-level chorus. His visor was dark, his frame limp and faceplates slack.

The medical monitors assured Prowl that his friend's spark was still burning. He would have known, even with his optics and audials offline and his sensory-wings dampened.

"Prowl, stop."

It wasn't until Ratchet pressed gently backwards on his chest-plate that Prowl realised he was on his feet and drifting slowly forwards. Ratchet's finger-servos brushed Prowl's own, cupped over his spark as if it could ease the ache there. He could still feel Jazz's presence - in the same way that a listener would still hear the diminished and dying echo of his own voice in a deep cave. Jazz was there, but weak and distant. Prowl's spark strained for the resonance it had grown accustomed to, and his pedes moved without conscious volition, straining against Ratchet's resistance in the effort to recapture that warmth. He conquered the impulse, bringing his tactical processor online just long enough for it to remind him of common sense.

Standing still, optics locked on the black and white frame of his closest friend, Prowl shook his helm.

"I'm fine, Ratchet. Jazz...?"

"He's stable." Ratchet's flat tone brought Prowl's helm around sharply. The medical officer's optics had followed Prowl's to their saboteur, his faceplates blank with the careful neutrality of his profession. There was no fire in Ratchet's optics, no scowl on his face. That was alarming. Ratchet sighed again as he pushed Prowl to sit on the nearest berth. "Improving maybe. Slowly. We were able to move you out here..." a brief scowl put in an appearance and Ratchet jerked his helm towards the berth where Prowl had awakened, "...over there... yesterday, and we took Jazz off spark support this morning, once we were sure his spark was accepting the frame."

Prowl studied the medic, a frown furrowing the plating below his chevron. "Continue," he said, his curt tone making it an order.

"His spark's taken the strain so far. His frame is functioning correctly, and we're seeing processor activity at a stasis-lock maintenance level."

Prowl just waited. Ratchet paused for a long moment, before settling onto the berth beside the tactician.

"But we're not seeing any sign that his spark is trying to rouse his frame beyond that level. And until it does, it's impossible to tell whether it's reintegrating his personality components... or not."

Prowl's door-wings flared behind him. He felt a shudder ripple through his frame, and gazed at Ratchet with horror. His old friend's sympathy and frustration rippled in the energy field between them. The strength of the reaction only underlined the weakness of Jazz's fully-framed presence in that same field.

"You're saying that Jazz is alive and likely to remain so..." Prowl cleared his vocaliser with a whirr of static. He had to articulate his fear, and put the horror into words, "...but may never wake from stasis."

Ratchet's grim expression spoke for him. The medic sat beside Prowl, his posture slumped, his hands resting on his lap.

"I'd hoped to have better news for you before your systems were back up to spec." He cycled his vents, his engine note rising for a few klicks before subsiding. "His spark output was fragging low before we made the transfer. It might just be taking longer to recover than he's had. But this is what it is. I'll do my best, Prowl, but I can't promise miracles."

Prowl nodded. He could keep the keen from his vocaliser and the fear from showing on his faceplates; he couldn't stop his door-wings from slumping against his back.

Tearing his optics from the still form on the berth was one of the more difficult things Prowl had ever done. He needed to do it, needed to put space between him and Jazz, needed to function without the spark that called constantly to his own. If he couldn't stand alone now, he knew instinctively, he never would. He might as well curl around his unwitting bondmate and join him in stasis.

For a moment, just a moment, he was tempted.

The tactician looked down at his clenched finger-servos and then back up towards the medic sitting beside him.

"Thank you, Ratchet," he said in a level voice. "You will keep me informed, of course." He slipped down from the berth, hiking his door-wings up behind him and allowing them to block his faceplates from Ratchet's view. "I must report to Optimus Prime."

"Prowl!" The medic's startled call stopped the tactician halfway to medbay's outer door. Ratchet stared at his patient's taut back-struts, servo rubbing his grey chevron. "You're just going to walk out of here?"

"I understood that my repairs were complete. I register full functioning of my systems."

"That's not what I…"

Prowl's door-wings lowered. He looked back over his shoulder, expression impassive.

"In the condition you describe, Jazz is entirely dormant and unaware. He is likely to remain so for the indefinite future. My presence in the repair bay cannot benefit him. It will serve no purpose, save for leaving me restless and frustrated, and robbing the Autobots of my service and capabilities."

"Prowl…" Ratchet's voice trailed off. The medic shook his helm before bowing it. Prowl knew that he was trembling, the finest of tremors visible in his clenched servos and lowered door-wings. He knew too that Ratchet had picked up on the strain. "You might not find walking out of here as easy as you think."

Prowl half-turned, the movement attracting Ratchet's optics. He met them, gaze steady and almost too intense.

"You believe that I find any of this easy?"

Ratchet's optics dropped away. The medic's fists clenched by his side, his vented sigh shaking his frame.

"Half-shifts only. And you'll be back if Jazz needs you?"

Prowl turned to leave, his door-wings rising once again to conceal his features. Every step was torture. Every vent threatened to choke him.

"In a spark-beat," he promised quietly.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

"Thundercracker." Megatron's long grey finger-servos drummed against the arms of his throne. The blue Seeker looked up, and so did his red and white trine-leader - one nervous, the other with a whine of anger from his thrusters. The warlord leaned forward in his seat. "Attend me."

There was a stillness in the dank air of the Nemesis. Decepticons held their vents, their red optics downcast, but angled so they could watch sidelong. It wasn't a secret to anyone that Thundercracker had spent the last orn and a half off the duty rosters, holed up in his trine-mates' quarters. Most of the crew assumed that Megatron had been consulted and approved the absence. Starscream and his master knew better.

"My Lord?"

Thundercracker's optics stayed low as he approached, unaware of the warlord's close scrutiny. The Seeker's movements were smooth, his armour clean and his colour good. The contrast between the healthy mech in front of him and the wreck in Hook's initial report could hardly be greater.

The Seeker dropped onto one knee, his wings folding down to their narrowest setting. Megatron let his minion wait, his faceplates set into a neutral expression. Thundercracker's thrusters whined, his tension growing as the klicks stretched out. Behind him, Starscream stepped forward, his arms ready at his sides, and the glare on his face-plates skirting the bare limits of what Megatron would tolerate.

The warlord let a cruel smile play on his lips. He let his helm rest against the throne-back, lifted a datapad in the servos of one hand, and extended it towards the Seeker.

"Take this to Soundwave. Then take Skywarp on patrol."

Thundercracker tool the datapad automatically. The Seeker looked up at him, his optics cycling through a reboot. The tension in his frame peaked and then was replaced by an expression of sheer bewilderment.

"Lord Megatron?"

Megatron leaned forward, his optics blazing under his armoured helm. Thundercracker flinched, helm hunkering down protectively between his shoulder-vents. Starscream took another step forward. Skywarp appeared in the doorway, the quick duck of his helm not quite enough to distract from his sudden entry. Megatron raised a brow-ridge. He steepled his finger-servos in front of him, voice even. "You have your orders, Thundercracker." He raised his optics to Skywarp, giving the third Seeker a glare for good measure. "I've had enough of you two shirking."

Thundercracker scrambled to his feet, his wings trembling a little as he backed out of the room, collecting Skywarp as he went.

Starscream watched his trine-mates go, his arms folding across his cockpit. Megatron chose not to mention the power draining from his second-in-command's null-rays… just as he had chosen not to mention Starscream absconding to the Ark three weeks ago, and the actions of his trine-mates both before and since. He studied his most infuriating, most intriguing and, unfortunately, least dispensable Seeker thoughtfully.

"Starscream."

The acknowledgement brought the Seeker's helm up. Starscream glared, suspicion written on his face-plates. The Decepticon second-in-command had been waiting three weeks for the fall-out to settle. Megatron had caught the Air Commander glancing his master's way even as the Seeker exchanged barbs with the Autobots' Praxian tactician on the battlefield the day before, and had held his silence while Astrotrain mused aloud on the fact that the Ops mech Jazz still seemed to be absent from their skirmishes. It tickled the warlord's dark humour that he'd kept his second on edge this long. It amused him more that he had no intention of ever letting Starscream off the hook by bringing matters into the open.

Starscream waited a beat, helm cocked in inquiry, before scowling and turning on his heel.

"Going somewhere, Starscream?" Megatron's snarl was low and dangerous.

Starscream sneered, covering his jittery nerves with arrogance. "Since you ask so nicely, _my Lord_ - " Megatron's generator growled at the sarcasm and Starscream's wings retracted unconsciously. His helm hunched down between his shoulder-vents and the edge in his voice became less strident. The Seeker could only be cowed so far though. He folded his arms, sniffing at the indignity of being questioned. "_If_ you need me, Lord Megatron, I will be joining Thundercracker and Skywarp on patrol. If they are to fly with _me_, I must be sure they're kept up to _my_ standard."

Megatron waved a hand, dismissing the Seeker with deliberate indifference. Starscream bridled, his muttered imprecations - hovering carefully below the threshold of comprehension - following him from the room.

The warlord smiled again, hard and cold, as his second-in-command left on the patrol he had quite carefully _not_ been ordered upon. He relaxed in his throne, his optics resting on nothing and giving no hint that he was watching the monitor that showed three bright-winged Seekers spiralling into Earth's deep blue skies.

He'd expected Shockwave's scheme to end in disaster and had been profoundly unsurprised when it did so. His initial anger had faded into the same resigned post-mortem analysis to which he subjected every failed plan. That didn't make it a total waste of his time.

Shockwave was back on Cybertron, cowed and re-educated in the nature of his master's wrath. His snide comments, the hints that he'd deal with the Earth-bound Autobots within orns, his respectful but insistent requests for more energon raids... Megatron looked forward to a respite from them all, and from his lieutenant's insufferable arrogance most of all.

Soundwave too was quieter than normal. His cassettes were reporting for duty on time, and their host wary and respectful. It didn't hurt to remind the telepath that his lord and master was more ruthless and less predictable than he sometimes assumed.

And Starscream? Starscream was angry and frustrated, hurt by the hurt to his trine-mates and furious that Megatron had permitted it. The Seeker had spent the first week after his return brooding over Thundercracker and Skywarp. He'd spent the week after that reordering his laboratory, terrorising the Nemesis crew and demanding supply raids and equipment to replace what Shockwave had 'wasted'. Now, he was almost back to his usual snarky self, the fire relit beneath his afterburners. It might take another few orns, but Starscream was recovering his equilibrium, vicious in his thirst for vengeance, and determined to lash out at the Autobots and Decepticons both.

Megatron had already upgraded his own defensive security. Now the Decepticon leader sat back and waited, anticipation building slowly behind his scowl. Yes, this debacle might be best set behind them, but the inconveniences hadn't been without their benefits. It had been far too long since he'd seen his second at his sly and scheming best.

* * *

_~Heads up~_ Sunstreaker's voice whispered along the bond and into his twin brother's spark. _~Coming your way~_

Sideswipe vented a sigh, swirling the remnants in his energon cube before laying it down on the table in front of him. He was sitting back in his chair, his semi-relaxed frame ready to either stand or remain seated as the situation demanded, when Prowl appeared in the doorway to the Rec Room.

The noise picked up, the crew's conversation a little too loud as they overcompensated. More than one mech stole sidelong glances, their furtive optics following their second-in-command slowly across the room towards the energon dispenser.

Trailbreaker leapt to his feet as Prowl turned around, cube in hand. Cliffjumper - of all mechs - was nanoklicks behind, both offering the Praxian a chair in the crowded room. Bluestreak went further, hurrying over to Prowl's side and trying to persuade him to join his table.

Sideswipe watched without surprise. He was equally unsurprised when Prowl declined in his soft, even voice.

The crew knew that their tactician was still not quite right. They'd been worried for Prowl even before the battle where he was 'injured'. His frequent trips to the medbay since his release from repairs were no secret, although the reason for them was the subject of worried speculation rather than general knowledge. Sideswipe thought about the black and white frame lying amidst the monitors in Ratchet's back room, still and silent for almost two orns now, and wished he shared that ignorance.

Prowl was already heading back to the door, the darting glances of his optics - to the left and down a little, as if he could see through the walls and deck between him and his target - betraying his destination. Sideswipe vented again, pushing to his pedes and grinning at his table-mates with a casual wave as he excused himself.

There was no particular hurry. He might have the current watching brief, but it wouldn't hurt to let Prowl out of their sights for a few minutes, and neither twin had any doubt as to where he was headed.

_~Three and a half joors. That's the current record, isn't it?~_

_~Yeah~_ The red-clad warrior nodded, his agreement carried over the bond to his distant twin. Ahead of him, about to turn out of sight at the end of the corridor, Prowl's door-wings twitched in a constant stress display. His glances towards the distant repair bay had become more frequent, and his servos kept clenching and unclenching as if trying to grasp something out of reach. _~But it's showing~_

Sunstreaker's sigh reached him over the bond - the sigh and the grim emotion that accompanied it. Truthfully, Prowl was doing better than Ratchet had warned them to expect. He was certainly a lot better than he had been in the first few days, when it was rare for an Earth-hour to pass without the tactician making some excuse to stop by medbay. He could go a full shift now, without his spark compelling him to return to Jazz's side. As he'd proved just the day before, he could even pull a double shift… much to Ratchet's vehement disgust. He was managing to recharge in his quarters almost as often as in medbay. Even so the compulsion was there. The thread that bound Prowl to his unresponsive friend, still so raw and new, was stronger than it had any right to be, and it wasn't getting any weaker, even if the tactician was learning to cope with its effects.

Prowl was out of sight now, around the bend of the corridor and far enough ahead that Sideswipe had lost track even of the rattle of his pedes on the metal deck. The front-liner picked up his pace, a niggle of concern playing in his processor, despite the unseen roll of his brother's optics.

He was going at a fair speed when he rounded the corner Prowl had passed. Certainly he hit the wall fast enough to feel the air rush from his vents, his arm caught in skilled servos and his momentum used against him.

Resetting fritzing optics, Sideswipe blinked up at the figure looming above him. It wasn't until a burst of angry urgency flooded his spark that it occurred to him to reassure Sunstreaker, and share the image in front of him with his twin.

Prowl stood over the front-liner with arms folded across his bumper, door-wings held high and wide, and a deep scowl on his faceplates. The tactician huffed air through his vents and raised a brow-ridge.

"You may inform Ratchet that, if he wishes to monitor my condition, he should recruit more able spies."

Denial was instinctive. Sideswipe shook his helm, his expression becoming one of injured innocence.

"I was just finishing off my cube…"

Prowl raised an unimpressed brow-ridge, one pede tapping on the ground beside the downed warrior.

"And Sunstreaker was 'just' passing through the command centre when he suggested I was overdue to refuel?"

The tactician's scowl spoke eloquently of his disbelief. His twitchy door-wings swayed suddenly to the left, and he looked in that direction, expression utterly lacking in surprise when Sideswipe's yellow-clad twin rounded the corridor junction.

"The two of you have been alternating a watch on me since I left the repair bay. While it was understandable in the initial stages of my recuperation, it is growing distinctly trying." He raised a brow-ridge, one servo coming up to rub his chevron in an unconscious gesture. "I very much doubt that your sense of commitment to your assignment as my bodyguards has persisted through more than two orns, or even past the initial post-battle debrief."

"Then maybe you should think again." Sunstreaker leaned against the corridor wall, one hand reaching out to tug Sideswipe to his pedes, even as his optics stayed on the jittery Praxian in front of them. Prowl fidgeted, his glances towards medbay frequent enough that he couldn't hold optic-contact with either twin.

"That would seem an unlikely scenario."

Sideswipe sighed, glancing at his brother's frown. The red twin threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Okay. So maybe Ratch mentioned something about keeping an optic open, but that's not why we're here." He took a step forward, his optics watching the tactician for unpredictable reactions. "Prowl, we know how difficult it is to be apart. And this is all new to you. We want to help you both."

The corridor was deserted, and Sideswipe had spent too long perfecting his pranking skills _not_ to listen for approaching mechs. Even so, Prowl shot him a sharp look and glanced to either side. His door-wings flared as they scanned for any of the crew who might overhear.

Jazz's continued existence was still very much a secret. That had been Prime's decision and neither Prowl nor the twins were ready to argue. The crew had already been told the saboteur was one with the Matrix. Telling them the truth at this stage could hardly help, or mitigate the grief that surfaced erratically in even the most matter-of-fact mechs. It would be far easier for the crew to come to terms with the loss they already knew about than to learn of the saboteur's ordeal and stasis-locked state.

It wasn't until Prowl was sure that they were alone that he leaned forward, speaking in a quiet hiss.

"Nothing can help. I brought this on myself. I chose this." His door-wings drooped, twitching violently where they hung against his back. "My actions might have been fruitless, but I must abide by their consequences."

"Not fruitless." Sunstreaker pushed away from the wall. He took a step forward, giving Prowl's shoulder a shove, forgetting for the moment that he was a warrior speaking to an officer, remembering only that he was a worried mech speaking to valued crew-mate. "Slag it, Prowl. Jazz is out of that torture box, because of you. His spark is still burning, because of you. He could wake up tomorrow for all Ratchet knows. He has a chance, because you wouldn't let him go."

Prowl glared at the yellow twin, his optics and door-wings sweeping their surroundings once more for eavesdroppers. Sideswipe shook his helm. He pushed his way between the two bridling mechs, a hand on his brother's chest-plate and his optics on his commander.

"Look, we're not saying you should find this easy. Frag, no. But you can't ignore it. Prowl, we're just saying we want to help. Teach you some tricks, maybe. Primus knows I'd go nuts with Sunstreaker glowering in my spark, if I didn't know how to block him sometimes."

"_You'd_ go nuts?"

Sideswipe ignored his brother's snark, his expression intent. "You need to listen, Prowl. It might not be a full-strength, two-way thing like ours, but you _are_ bonded, and there aren't many mechs on this crew who know how that feels."

Prowl wrapped his arms around his frame, his optics flicking between the twins and some inner vision that they couldn't share. His door-wings had gone from jerking to a constant, sharp tremor. His pedes were unsteady and he blinked at them, not entirely seeing the corridor in front of him.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe exchanged looks before moving to either side of the tactician, turning him around with gentle servos. This was only the second time, to their knowledge, that Prowl had pushed his control too far, leaving his regular check on Jazz too long. The difference was that, this time, it was their fault.

"Come on," Sideswipe said gently. "Lets get you to the repair bay." He vented a sigh. "But tomorrow, we're gonna talk."

* * *

He came online quietly. Automatic routines sunk deep into his base code maintained his engine note and dimmed his visor. Others reached out through his sensor field before his first conscious thought, overriding the monitors around him and preventing any evidence of his awakening from escaping.

Jazz lay still, his muscle cables limp and his frame showing no signs of life. Behind the facade, his passive sensors strained and his powerful processor analysed his situation with crystal sharp precision. He wasn't where he had been when his conscious memory files ended. He wasn't _when_ he should be either.

There was a void in his system records - not just an inexplicable six week period of maintenance, repair and spark support log entries, but almost an orn before that in which there was simply nothing recorded. That was more than just unsettling. It was fragging impossible.

Jazz's spark throbbed. Suspicion, and anxiety, and the shadows of a deep pain that he couldn't quite remember, all tickled the back of a processor that lacked any explanation for them. Fear fought to tighten his cables and bring his weapons online. He kept them suppressed now with a conscious effort that supplanted his autonomous defensive routines. The saboteur trusted his instincts far more than he trusted even his supposedly-unhackable log systems, or the sensors that suggested there was no immediate threat.

Whatever the frag had happened, despite the clean status reports from his frame, Jazz hurt, and Jazz was frightened, and Jazz was _dangerous_.

The passive sensors picked up minute electric fields, currents in air and temperature, echoes of even the slightest sounds, developing a picture few mechs could rival with their optics.

Ratchet's repair bay?

It made sense. It didn't do anything to relieve Jazz's deep sense of suspicion and unease.

The act was entirely conscious as he reached out to fry the monitors around him, hacking Teletraan-1's outer autonomous processes to prevent the destruction from being reported. Only then did the saboteur reach out with tightly-focussed and well-disguised active sensors. The side room he occupied and the repair bay beyond were empty. The lights were dimmed. Night time then. His chronometer was correct about that, at least, even if the date it reported was wildly at odds with his expectation.

Jazz's visor lit, still polarised to dampen the glare. He surveyed the room with a quick sweep of his hidden optics, double and triple checking the reports of his sensor systems.

Empty. Good.

He rolled off the berth and into a crouch, the metal platform between him and the door. Monitor fibres snapped out his ports, the slight sting an irrelevance as he assessed his frame. It was perfect, every system report faultless. Even his black, white and blue paintwork had been touched up and shined to a smooth glossy finish. His frame had been tuned not only to factory specs, or the higher standard Ratchet insisted upon for the Ark's crew, but to something approximating his own usual standard of maintenance.

For anyone else, it would be enough.

For Jazz, the discontinuity between his perception of his own condition, just subjective moments before, and its current reality was obvious and jarring. Ratchet could fiddle with his systems for a decaorn and never replicate the degree of fine-tuning Jazz had learnt in years of training and dangerous fieldwork. The sheer number of systems now deviating from optimum sent a shiver down Jazz's back-struts and a hiccup through his dampened engine vibrations. Still squatting, hidden from view of anyone entering the dimly-lit room, the saboteur flexed arms and legs, trying to loosen muscle cables that had tightened during his incapacity, albeit negligibly by most standards.

His sensors told him he was home. Every indication was that he was secure and fully repaired. His spark still sang with anxiety and unease, unable to reconcile that security with the sense of anxiety and danger that it couldn't explain. Was this a trick? Some attempt to lure him off his guard? Or was this unease a legacy of something he couldn't remember - which, according to his logs and memory banks, had never actually happened?

There were no answers to be found in the quiet, night-darkened med-bay. Jazz's visored optics kept getting pulled to his left, as if he could see through the walls and deck and into the officers' corridor.

Prowl was there. He didn't question the knowledge or wonder how he'd come to possess it.

Prowl was there, and he'd have answers to all Jazz's very many questions. Either that or someone would pay - both for Jazz's distress and for whatever was keeping his friend in the dark. There was no fragging way that a Prowl in full command of his faculties and the situation at hand could _not_ know what had happened to his closest friend and colleague.

Moving with all the stealth at his disposal, compensating for the minuscule deficiencies of his frame, Jazz crept into the main area of the repair bay, easing his way past the medic's office, and Ratchet's quarters beyond. He backed away from the door too, heading instead for the maintenance and ventilation duct he knew ran along the back wall. A swipe of his hand, a pulse from the magnetic generator in his servos, and a panel popped loose, letting him slip silently into the confined space beyond. Another surge of his magnets and the panel was replaced as if it had never been touched. Nodding to himself, the saboteur set off in his stealthy quest for explanations.

Until Jazz knew what was going on, until Prowl had confirmed he was safe, no one - Ratchet included - was going to know he was awake.

* * *

The maintenance shafts were easy for a mech of Jazz's skills to navigate. The traps and barriers set for cassetticons opened to his codes, and he hacked each one as they did so, preventing their logs from registering the activity or reporting it to the ever-vigilant Red Alert.

For a few clicks, he paused at a junction, pondering a detour to glance into the Rec Room. Part of him wanted to check on the crew he cared for as family. It unsettled him that a larger part, the core of his instincts - his spark even - insisted that getting to Prowl was more important. Shaking his helm sharply, he turned back onto the straight course, his processor rationalising that - given the time of night - the room would be virtually empty in any case.

Prowl's office was almost as dark as the rest of the ship. A single lamp, angled down onto the tactician's desk, mingled with the glow of his blue optics. His own visor deliberately dim, Jazz studied his friend from behind the concealing grill of a vent, a frown on his face.

It was a long time since he'd seen Prowl this jittery. The Praxian's door-wings twitched, his frame shifting in its seat and his entire aspect uneasy. It was enough to give Jazz pause. He stilled his own frame, checking his stealth routines were in place to keep his presence concealed even from his friend's extensive wing-mounted sensor suite. Cautiously, Jazz analysed his passive sensors, determined to assess any potential threat before he made himself known.

Prowl's finger-servo played across a data-pad on the desk in front of him, scrolling backwards and forwards through the same section several times before he abandoned the attempt. Jazz watched as his friend sat back in his chair, optics dimming and finger-servos coming up to rest on his chevron. Prowl's vents slowed in concentration, his jitters stilled, and, just for a few klicks, Jazz felt some of the tension ease from own his frame. Then his spark rebelled, insisting that he wasn't safe and that nothing could be trusted on face value.

Prowl's relaxed face-plates tightened in a slight frown. He shook his helm as if to clear it, vented a sigh and tapped the com panel on his desk.

"Teletraan-1, please report status of medical monitors alpha nine through fourteen."

There was a musical lilt detectable to Jazz's sensitive audio receptors - a rhythm, as if Prowl had repeated the words often enough for them to develop into a routine. The tactician's helm was bowed, weariness written in his posture as he waited for an equally routine response.

"Medical monitors alpha nine through fourteen inactive."

Whatever answer Prowl had been expecting, it obviously wasn't that. He jerked to his feet, his upset chair clattering to the ground behind him. His optics flared, his door-wings wide and high in alarm.

"Inact…?" Prowl sounded not far off panic, and Jazz found himself mirroring the emotion, an energon blade slipping from its sheath and into his servos. "But the alarms…? Explain!"

The pause from Teletraan-1 was several micro-klicks longer than it should have been. "No explanation possible."

"Put me through to Ratchet!"

"Chief Medical Officer Ratchet is currently in recharge in his quarters."

"Not in the repair bay?" Prowl demanded. He was leaning forward, his servo-tips pressed to the desk in front of him as if to steady him. He cycled his optics, leaving them dim. His vents faltered and his voice was very quiet when he went on. "Teletraan, please scan med-bay. Report on condition of Autobot Jazz."

Teletraan-1's vocaliser cycled, the whir audible over the open com. "No active spark resonances detected in the repair bay."

"No!" Prowl trembled, his door-wings wavering up and down. "No, I don't believe it." His optics flared bright and then dimmed again, the finger-servos of one hand coming up to brush his chestplate.

Jazz had frozen, still and silent in the vent, shocked by the intensity of emotion Prowl displayed, and by the way his own spark pulsed in sympathy for the sight in front of him.

"I don't… I know…" Prowl's vocaliser stuttered into silence, his helm tilted as if listening. And then Prowl turned to face the covered vent, the expression of hope and disbelief on his face almost painful to see.

"Jazz?"

* * *

"Jazz?"

For a moment, only silence met his inquiry. Then his door-wings registered a magnetic flux. The grill opened. Jazz stepped into the room.

Prowl had fantasized about this moment. He'd woken from recharge with false memories of it, and his tactical processor had provided a dozen variants on the scenario.

None of them had involved a silent black-and-white frame slipping into Prowl's darkened office like a spectre from his darkest dreams.

Jazz's frame was taut and wary, his visor lit but polarised to dampen its glow. He stood in a half-crouch, ready for anything and as far from relaxed as Prowl had ever seen his companion. For all that, the tactician felt his spark sing, and a weight that he'd carried for almost three orns lift.

"Jazz," he repeated softly.

"What's going on, Prowl?" The use of his proper name was a clue, the flat, unmusical tone another. Prowl hadn't moved from his initial position, shock freezing him in place. Now he held still deliberately, not even lifting his hands from the desk surface. An armed and able Ops specialist in full defensive mode was not a mech to startle or alarm.

"Jazz," Prowl met his friend's optics, his voice grave and a pause adding weight to each statement. "You're home. I'm here." He let the smallest smile quirk one corner of his mouth. "You're safe."

The final words might have thrown a switch. Jazz sagged, tension draining from his frame in a flood. An energon blade that Prowl hadn't even noticed slipped from suddenly limp finger-servos to clatter against the floor. The saboteur's visor brightened and his energy field expanded, his stealth algorithms releasing their hold on his systems.

Jazz blinked up at Prowl, and the tactician had never seen his friend so tired, so afraid or so bewildered.

"You're safe," Prowl repeated, letting his own tension go.

The tactician's spark throbbed in his chest. He didn't recall moving to take the other mech in his arms. The realisation that he had was startling. Prowl had never embraced Jazz before. A comforting arm around his friend's shoulder, yes. Many long joors had been spent sitting by the saboteur's side, talking him through his troubles, sharing his own or simply listening. Jazz had slipped into recharge with his helm resting on Prowl's shoulder often enough that the tactician had stopped counting.

The Ops mech had never stood in the circle of Prowl's arms, chest-plate to chest-plate, and leaned into Prowl of his own volition.

Jazz shuddered, and Prowl could feel the panic and tension still spilling in waves from his spark - damped by Prowl's presence, but not entirely eradicated. His own spark wanted to curl up in sympathy. He vented slowly instead, focusing on calm thoughts. Jazz would retain no conscious memory of his ordeal. The deep sensory impressions burned into his spark instead would be all the more trying without a context to rationalise them.

It might have been a few klicks, a breem, or half an eternity before Jazz seemed to realise what he was doing. The saboteur took a startled step backwards, pushing free of the embrace. He stared at Prowl, faceplates betraying his confusion.

Frowning, the saboteur shook his helm to clear it. He pressed his servo-tips to the chest-plate above his spark, angling his sensory horns as if he could hear the joy that sang from Prowl's spark to his own. Scowling, he shook his helm a second time.

"Prowler?" His servos waved in free air, as if trying to shape words large enough to encompass the situation. Venting in exasperation, he gave up. "What in th' name of _Primus_ is goin' on?"

The frustration was something Prowl could understand. Jazz was an information-oriented mech, as much so as Prowl himself. Lack of knowledge could offline them both, or offline the mechs in their charge. Nothing was so frightening as ignorance.

"No one was harmed, save you, Jazz. You were captured by Shockwave. He experimented on your spark. Our rescue of you was difficult and not without complications, but ultimately successful. We have been waiting for you to awaken."

There was silence for a few klicks. Prowl watched his companion process the information, evaluating both the facts Prowl had provided and their implications.

"No one's hurt?"

"No." Prowl smiled, and the sun rose in his world as Jazz responded with a broad, relieved grin.

The saboteur ex-vented, hooking a chair with one pede and dragging it over. He settled into it, watching thoughtfully as Prowl retrieved his own low-backed seat.

"I need th' rest of it, Prowler." The saboteur leaned forward, expression intent. "Why're my memory banks blank? What 'complications'?"

There were a dozen ways Prowl could answer that question. All save one of them would amount to nothing but deceit.

"Jazz, I need you to stay calm. You're safe, and we'll work things out. This will be a shock, I understand that, but it's the easiest way."

"Not 'xactly inspirin' me with confidence, mech."

"I know."

Prowl cycled down his optics. He regulated his vents, thinking back to the two, brief sessions he'd permitted to ease the twins' fretting. He had to admit that some of what they'd tried to explain had been a help. Most of the rest had been frankly baffling, or irrelevant with his spark-bound partner deep in stasis. One thing they'd been sure of though, and Ratchet had confirmed: Jazz and Prowl were linked. They were, and always would be, far more aware of one another than any two other mechs. They'd mirror one another's moods, unless they defended against it. And while words would likely always be beyond them, they'd probably need to take steps to stop images and even whole memories drifting between them in their recharge as the bond matured.

Prowl had spent far too long dwelling on those possibilities during his endless wait. He'd probed the thread that linked his spark to the silent Jazz, and he'd learned what he could of its nature. The tactician was nothing if not a quick study.

The thread was still there, where he had learned to find it. It lashed and writhed, still torn by doubt and anxiety, despite the cloak of outwards calm that Jazz had drawn around him. Making anything felt in that maelstrom would be like trying to whisper instructions amidst a howling gale.

Optics still offline, Prowl extended one hand, finger-servos outstretched. He counted his spark-pulses, waiting patiently through the long hesitation before slender finger-servos intertwined with his own and Jazz took his hand.

The connection between them settled, strengthened. Jazz gasped, his spark resisting on instinct alone, but also reaching out, afraid and relieved and excited all at the same time.

_An empty frame._

_A spark in a box._

_Prowl with spark energy spilling between his chest-plates, the box cradled against him._

_Ratchet._

_Starscream._

_Darkness._

_The frame restored, its colours vibrant, its visor dark._

_Waiting. Watching. Needing. Knowing._

Jazz's servos jerked free from Prowl's, his vents coming hard and fast. The connection faded once again to a distant thread, fragile and turbulent.

Any other mech would have needed a decaorn, a year, an entire vorn, to assimilate the information Prowl had conveyed in a spark-beat. Jazz sat silent for a single breem, his visor bright and locked with Prowl's optics. Prowl waited, not moving himself until Jazz drew in a long shuddering vent and shook his helm.

"I'm safe now." The saboteur might have been reminding Prowl, or reminding himself. "Y' did what you hadta, Prowl, an' I'm not sure I've ever been more grateful."

Prowl's optics dropped to the desk, unable to hold his friend's gaze. He flexed his finger-servos and relaxed them.

"My actions have burdened you with a partial bond. One that cannot be broken."

Jazz leaned forward, his hesitation before taking Prowl's finger-servos back in his own scarcely noticeable.

"Yeah, I got that. We'll work it out, Prowler. Y'know we will."

In all Prowl's tactical simulations, in all his dreams, the impossible, infuriatingly unpredictable mech in front of him had never once responded with such matter-of-fact acceptance.

Not that he entirely believed it. He could feel the turmoil and shock rolling off the saboteur. He would have felt it even without the gossamer thread that wove their sparks together. He knew his friend well enough to read the anxiety, dismay and incipient anger from his frame alone. Jazz feared what might come as much as Prowl did - but his words were a promise: they'd face it together.

"Prowl!" The door burst open, shattering the moment. Prowl snatched his servo back, his door-wings flaring. Jazz's weapon systems shot online, his faceplates stilling in a battle-ready mask, before he overode his instincts and settled back into his chair with deliberate nonchalence.

Ratchet was wide-opticed, his engine growling as if he had maintained top speed from the repair bay to Prowl's office without pause. His sirens hummed as they wound down, still echoing the row he must have made as he raced through the Ark. Behind him, the twins revved loudly and in unison. Behind _them_, others crowded the corridor, flotsam attracted by the noise and gathered up in the medic's wake.

"Prowl… Jazz is… Are you…?"

Ratchet's vocaliser choked into static, his optics bright.

Jazz gave him a friendly wave.

"Hiya, Ratch."

Gears glitched. Bluestreak was struck silent. Sunstreaker cursed, slumping against the doorway and holding it as if for support. Jazz hummed through his vents, turning back to his companion and raising a brow-ridge behind his visor.

"Y'know, I'm gettin' the idea there was a complication or two y' forgot t' mention."


	12. Chapter 12

_Thank you all for reading so far, and for coming with me on this ride. It's almost a shock to get to the end. And special thanks to all those who have reviewed! I hope you've all enjoyed the fic :) _

* * *

**Chapter 12**

The thunderous chaos that burst over his com almost sent Mirage careering off the road. Behind him, Hound skidded to a halt, the dirt thrown up from his deep treaded tires hanging in the moonlight. Both listened, engines revving in the still night, to the racket of a dozen voices shouting, and one struggling to make itself heard above the noise.

"This is Blaster, rockin' the airwaves, callin' all ma buddies back to the barn." The cassette host was shouting, his lyrical voice rich with excitement. "C'mon home, ma mechs, c'mon home!"

Pacing himself to Hound's top speed was an effort, one Mirage was relieved to abandon when his worried friend shouted for him to go on ahead. The Ligier racer didn't ask for confirmation. His fine-tuned engine roared in the night, patrol abandoned and forgotten. There'd been no word from Blaster - no answer from the Ark - since the unexpected recall. Mirage played the brief signal over and again, his audials echoing with the voices of agitated mechs, his Ops algorithms working on the recording. Only one word stood out, a name repeated often enough to rise above the noise. It was one he'd hoped for, prayed for even, after hearing the new note in Blaster's voice. He'd not heard the mech sound so alive since... since the last time a total recall had urged the Autobots homewards.

The Ark's entrance stood open and unguarded, the noise from within enough to warn any intruder they would get far beyond the threshold. Mirage skidded into the control room, already transforming, and dodging both stalagmites and crew-mates. The thronging crowds made it clear at once why the com station was unattended. Even if Blaster had lingered at the console, he could hardly have heard an incoming call above the noise. Every mech on the ship - and half those who had been abroad - had to be crowded into the open space, all jostling to see the small group at the far end of the room.

Mirage wove through the crowd with skill where he could, with elbows and a flare of his energy field to clear the way where he couldn't. The Ark's crew had never seemed so large, or so noisy. His optics were bright, but his Ops systems kept his systems even and his faceplates carefully neutral. The blue and white spy sauntered forward through the last few yards. Mirage had a reputation to maintain. He couldn't show his hope... or the intense fear that it might be crushed.

The last mech shifted, the last shoulder removed itself from his view, and Mirage smiled politely. He nodded.

"Jazz."

The blue visor glinted with wary humour. "Raj," Jazz answered in the same even tone, even as his subordinate's thin smile broadened. Mirage laughed, his joy too intense to contain, shaking his head and trying to resist the urge to reach out to the other mech - just to check he was real.

Jazz stood in the entrance to the officers' corridor. Prowl hovered directly behind him, and the twins and Bumblebee formed an effective barrier in front. Despite frequent, frustrated glances in Jazz's direction, Ratchet was off to one side, stymied by an audience of his own - those who couldn't get close to Prowl and Jazz, demanding answers from the officer they could reach.

Mirage slipped into the defensive line without another thought, wondering how many of the mechs bombarding Jazz with their questions, reaching for him, trying to touch him, could see the tension in his black and white frame. And how many realised that it was only Prowl's subtle hand on his lower back that kept the saboteur from fleeing.

Jazz was grinning, calling greetings, never quite getting as far as answering questions before the next mech interrupted. One could almost overlook him leaning back into his companion, and the artificially even tone of his over-controlled systems. Even for Mirage, who'd hoped to see his friend again, the sight of him now was scarcely believable. For the rest of the crew - and for Jazz himself - it seemed overwhelming.

"But... but..." Bluestreak clung to Sunstreaker's arm, his expression oscillating between delighted and appalled and afraid faster than Mirage could follow. "But you can't be Jazz. Jazz is dead! Prime said so." The young mech's optics were over-bright, his door-wings trembling. "We... we mourned, and Prime said, and... and..." Blue nodded to himself, voice taking on an edge of accusation and rising strident above the noise of the crowd. "And how do we know you're really Jazz? You could be a fake, or... or from a parallel universe! You could be parallel Jazz. You could be _evil_! How do we know you're not _evil, parallel Jazz_?"

Mirage cycled his optics. He wasn't alone. Conversations throughout the room had paused, the assembled Autobots trying to process the wild accusation. Perhaps, given Jazz's return from the Matrix, nothing was too wild for their shocked processors.

Then Jazz laughed. The rich sound rolled through the room, drawn onwards by a wave of indrawn vents.

"Wow. Seriously, mech? We need t' talk again about weanin' you off the Star Trek re-runs, okay?" The saboteur braced, taking in a vent of his own. He took a step forward, easing between the twins to run a gentle servo over Bluestreak's helm. "Blue, it's me. Just me."

"But Prime said... Prime told us..."

"I told the truth as I knew it." Quite how they'd missed the rumble of Prime's approach, Mirage would never know.

Bluestreak spun around. "You didn't know?" he asked, his startled question echoed by half the crew.

Prime raised a hand to still the uproar. The large mech stood in the passageway that led to the Ark entrance, his optics locked onto the visor of his third in command over the helms of their crew. His fists clenched at his side and then released, extending a little forward as if he too craved to confirm the output of his optics.

"I grieved to the depths of my spark." Optimus took a step into the room and the Autobots parted for him, leaving a clear corridor where there'd been crowded mechs a moment before. His strong energy field spread through the room, the astonished joy there silencing them all. "Even when we discovered Shockwave's cruel deception, when Prowl and Ratchet fought so hard to save your spark, I could not subject the mechs under my care to the same uncertain torment that has plagued my days and disturbed my recharge hours."

Prime stood in front of Jazz now. He reached out to lay a servo on each tense shoulder, and stilled as his third flinched. He waited, his optics flicking up to Prowl as the tactician moved forward until Jazz's back-struts rested against his bumper. Jazz leaned back into the subtle comfort, and allowed Prime's servos to settle.

Optimus Prime looked hard at him, pain visible in his deep blue optics.

"I could not bring myself to believe you might truly return to us."

Jazz drew in a shaky vent. Shielded from the room by Prime and by the mechs closest to him, the broad showy grin dropped away. For the first time since returning to the Ark, Mirage saw a true glimpse of his much-missed friend. The quirk of Jazz's lips was subtle, the expression on his face weary. He shook his head, smiling gently.

"Jus' try an' keep me away."

Prowl's hand rested on his friend's arm, and both pressed into the contact. Prowl's door-wings twitched, Jazz's visor not quite concealing his darting glances from side to side. They were weary, patience worn thin. Ratchet saw it as well as Mirage could. The medic stepped forwards into the opening Prime left in his wake and subspaced a wrench, tapping it against his palm. The look he swept around the shocked and murmuring crew made the implied threat general.

"Right." He raised a servo, pointed firmly at the saboteur. "You. Medbay. And this time, you don't leave until I say so."

Jazz could have argued. There was nothing on Mirage's sensitive Ops sensors to suggest the trip was necessary. He yielded instead, letting Ratchet hustle him back into the officers' corridor, and no one outside the select group noticed Prowl backing up into the shadows alongside them. Mirage and Bumblebee needed no consultation to close ranks with the twins, and Optimus stood with them, giving them the bulk they needed to hold back the confused and questioning crew.

It was half a joor before Prime's resonant voice coaxed the questions into celebrations, and the massed Autobots into the rec room. Mirage mingled amidst them, concerned perhaps but joyful too, rejoicing with friends he no longer had to deceive, if only by omission.

The rec room was still crowded a joor after that when Jazz and Prowl reappeared, masks firmly in place. Not even Mirage could tell whether Jazz was truly at his ease, or just playing for the crew, as the mech grinned and spread his arms, his warm visor sweeping the room.

"All right, my mechs. This calls for a party!"

The simple declaration couldn't banish the past few orns - for Jazz or for his friends - but it was a start.

It was a start.

* * *

It was a fine summer morning when Optimus Prime strolled onto the command deck of the Ark. A warm breeze played across his armour, the Autobots taking an opportunity to freshen the ship's air supplies while the weather stayed fair. Prime ruffled his plating, opening vents and flaring seams to let the air flow cool his systems. It made a pleasant change from the stuffiness of his office. It was a much needed escape from the drifts of paperwork accumulating there too.

The knowing look in Prowl's optics told Optimus his delinquency hadn't passed unnoticed. He held up the datapad he carried in front of him as both shield and explanation. His second glanced at it, unimpressed. Prowl leaned back in his seat, his optics scanning the monitors in a swift check before giving the Prime an enquiring look.

"Can I help you, sir?" The tactician's door-wings arched to mirror his raised brow-ridge, his respectful expression tinged with humour. "Is there a problem with the reports I gave you to look over?"

Prime's quelling look was subverted by the smile in his optics. He chuckled. "Not yours, Prowl. Your glyphs I can actually read." He glanced down at the datapad in his finger-servos, shaking his helm ruefully. Stretching a little, he looked to either side as if his elusive third-in-command might put in an appearance, and then down at the console, tapping the switch nearest him.

"Teletraan-1, please locate Autobot Jazz."

He regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. They seemed to echo in a room gone silent. Prime's armour flattened, memory files playing out in front of his optics. Seated in front of the monitors, Prowl shivered in a breeze that felt suddenly cold.

It was eight Earth weeks, almost to the hour, since Prime had last issued that precise request. In Cybertronian terms that was both no time at all and long enough to change a mech to his very spark.

Prowl's gaze stayed focussed on the screen in front of him, his wings held steady save for the slightest tremor. Optimus Prime searched for words to apologise and to remind his second that the nightmare of the last two months was over.

Teletraan-1 found them: "Autobot Jazz is entering the Command Deck."

"Someone lookin' f' me?"

Jazz rounded the stalagmites growing through the deck floor in a casual saunter. His servos rested on his hips, his thigh speakers flared and throbbing a low beat. It was impossible to read the softly-lit visor, but Optimus thought he saw his third-in-command's gaze flick across Prowl before settling on Prime himself.

Jazz cocked his helm as he closed the gap between them, sensory horns at a jaunty angle. The attentive look and the grin on his faceplates were almost enough to distract an observer from the stealthy way his servos trailed along the leading edge of Prowl's nearest door-wing, and the way the appendage pressed up into the touch. Almost.

"Can I help ya, Prime?"

Jazz produced a pair of energon cubes as he spoke, pressing one into Optimus Prime's servos and the other into Prowl's without so much as a verbal acknowledgement. Prime took his instinctively, cycling his optics at it, and then suppressing the chuckle in his vocaliser when Prowl didn't even appear to notice taking his own.

"Jazz," Prime nodded his thanks, having to think for a moment before reminding himself of the datapad he held. "I had a few questions about the media analysis you compiled. Perhaps we could talk in my office..."

His third nodded, patting Prowl's shoulder before turning away. "Up for a movie later?"

Prowl shuddered, the echoes of memory still strong. Jazz's grip tightened, his visor brightening for a few klicks, and the tactician relaxed. He rubbed his chevron and released a long, slow vent before nodding. "My quarters, after shift."

"Gotcha," Jazz agreed, his broad grin coaxing the smallest of smiles out of his companion. Prowl's door-wings rose a little, and Jazz took a moment to tease the nearest before beckoning Prime to lead the way. "Okay, Optimus. I'm all yours."

It was curious, Prime mused as he followed the saboteur along the short corridor, not how _much_ the interaction between his third and second in command had changed, but how _little_. As far back as Optimus Prime could remember, Jazz had been slipping Prowl energon cubes, and casually molesting his second's sensitive sensors. For almost as long, Prowl had been enduring Jazz's never-ending education in popular culture, and accommodating the saboteur's erratic whims with tolerant good humour.

Some things had changed. The touches had become more frequent, the mirroring of moods between the two a little more obvious. A natural and unspoken mutual understanding had always been part of their relationship, but open and tactile reassurance, like that Prime had just witnessed, had been rare - except in the immediate aftermath of a mission gone wrong or a tactical disaster. Now it was almost a daily occurrence.

Jazz was jumpy still, and had shown a tendency towards suspicion and caution where before he'd have rushed in where devils feared to tread. He was working only part shifts - at Ratchet's insistence - and where Prowl might have protested, Jazz had accepted the proscription and sunk his time instead into mingling with the shocked and disbelieving crew. Prowl himself was still quiet, and all the more so in comparison to Jazz. His always-rare visits to the Rec Room were now vanishingly so, his recharge almost as erratic as Jazz's. Even so, Prime could only be astonished and deeply impressed by how well his friends had adjusted to their new situation.

"Don't tell me I've picked up a scratch?"

Optimus didn't realise how long he'd spent lost in thought, optics resting passively on his lieutenant, until Jazz spun on the spot with a theatrical gesture, apparently trying to see his own aft.

"Ratch'll have my spark if he sees it!"

Optimus couldn't help it. His engine grumbled, queasy with the memory of Jazz's fragile spark chamber in his medic's trembling servos. Jazz straightened, the smile slipping from his face-plates, and his black helm nodding as if in confirmation of his suspicions.

The saboteur gazed levelly at his Prime, arms folding across the blue racing stripe on his chest armour.

"Yeah, I thought this'd be 'bout more than the media stuff."

It had been, of course. Optimus had to admit to himself that the details of Jazz's recent analysis were far from urgent, and this meeting had never been more than a pretext to assess his third's ongoing recovery. It really shouldn't have been a surprise that his Head of Special Operations realised that so quickly, but it put Prime on the defensive that he had.

And that, Prime realised, his optics narrowing a little, was probably the entire point. Jazz let a hint of a smile soften his expression, his frame posture deliberately non-threatening, but the mask he showed the world still had its cracks - ones that were only slowly closing.

It took an effort of self-control for Prime not to vent a sigh as he settled himself in the specially constructed and reinforced chair behind his desk. He waved Jazz to the seat opposite, watching with interest when his third perched on the corner of the broad desk instead.

"Jazz."

"I'm okay, Optimus." The words rolled easily from Jazz's vocaliser. The tone was the same one Optimus Prime had heard him use time and again in the Rec Room: sombre enough to convince the asker that his concern was noted and appreciated, light enough to reassure him that his concerns were unwarranted. Jazz waited a beat or two to see if the prompt response had the effect intended. Prime met his visor with steady optics, expression impassive even without the battlemask to conceal it.

The saboteur shook his helm, venting hard. Some of the poise dropped from his posture, the mask falling away, as it would with precious few other mechs. He shrugged, one hand coming up to rub at a helm-horn.

"Believe it or not, I kinda mean it. Sure, I'm edgy. But it's not like I actually have memories of what happened."

Prime just waited, a brow-ridge rising to betray his scepticism. Jazz huffed air at him, turning a little so he didn't have to meet his Prime's optics. His servos intertwined in his lap, his visor resting on them.

"Not real memories. I know it wasn't good. It... it hurt. Can't say I'm rechargin' like a new-spark. But I can cope with that. I'll get over it."

He looked up, fists clenching. Tension had edged back into his frame, but his voice and visored optics were steady.

"It ain't the first time I've been captured, Prime. It ain't the first time I've been tortured."

Prime knew it. He hated it, but he knew it nonetheless. Most of the time, he could pretend to forget that Jazz had survived treatment that would make Prime himself plead to tell all he knew. Not at times like this. The knowledge made his spark ache.

Jazz slipped down from the desk, pacing a few steps and waving a hand as if he could dismiss the issue.

"I'm not sayin' it's easy. I'm sayin' I'm not gonna let this break me. Shockwave never could, and he won't now." Jazz scowled, the menace that radiated from his taut frame threatening dire things for his next encounter with the Decepticon. A few klicks passed before Jazz shook himself, a vented sigh escaping him. "I'll work things out. And Prowl'll help."

It was added almost as an afterthought. Prime steepled his fingers, engine rumbling in soft encouragement. Jazz cycled his optics and his lips quirked into a wry grin.

"Yeah, that's takin' a bit of adjustment too. Might be a bumpy ride for a while. We're still figurin' out the ground rules." He shook his helm. "Can't say I'm whoopin' up choirs of delight 'bout it, but if it's Prowl or offline...?"

He shrugged again, and the acceptance in his expression was more than his Prime had dared hope for. It lifted a shadow from Optimus's spark and sent a pang through it at the same time. It was too easy to forget that Jazz was a saboteur and the Head of Special Operations. Brutal practicality had been driven into his core. The cruel triumph of necessity was an every-orn part of his life, whether it was weighed against the future of his own spark or those of others. Optimus both ached for his friend, and thanked Primus that he wasn't fighting the reality of what had happened.

Prime thought he'd controlled his reactions, but Jazz saw the change in him. The Ops mech settled back on the desk with a gust of air from his vents. He adjusted his visor, and the smile that quirked his lip-plates was one of genuine good humour.

"That's what's been worryin' you? Believe me, Optimus, if it hadta be someone, I'd take Prowler every time."

Prime leaned forward, his own posture relaxing a little as his arms rested on his desk. "I am... relieved."

Jazz chuckled. "An' I'm alive. An' that's all that matters."

The saboteur's chuckle faded into silence, his expression becoming distant as a thought occurred to him. His visor dimmed a fraction, his helm tilting as it swept over Optimus Prime. His voice was softer when he went on.

"Prime... Prowler doesn't wanna talk 'bout it, but it's kinda hard not t' work some things out, y'know?" He paused, holding Optimus's optics with a firm look. "You know I wouldn't give up, right? I wouldn't do that t' you, or t' myself."

Prime tried to keep his plating from ruffling, and knew he was only partly successful. The calm acceptance and good humour of a few moments before were gone from Jazz's tense frame and from his own. He let a sigh show, shaking his helm slowly as he gazed at his friend. "So the great majority of my officers insisted."

"An' you didn't believe them?"

It was a difficult question. Prime gave it due consideration, trying to marshall the internal conflict he'd been waging for eight weeks into words. Now his third-in-command was the one waiting, drawing out Prime's thoughts with his silence.

"I have never doubted your dedication or courage. I have never doubted the strength of your commitment to the Autobot cause. And I have never underestimated the price you have paid in my service - the burden you bear." He drew in a vent, cooling his systems. "I believe you will always throw your full spark into doing what you believe to be the correct and necessary thing." Looking up, Prime soaked in the sight of his third alive and well in front of him, and shuddered. "But I could not be certain under what circumstances your return to the Matrix would appear to you to be both correct and necessary."

It would have been easy for Jazz to brush that off. He could have denied the possibility, and masked the shadows that lurked behind his visor. Instead he sat still for a long time, considering his Prime's words.

"Yeah. I think that's what Prowler's not tellin' me too. And I guess I can't say you're wrong." A frown creased Jazz's brow. He drummed his finger-servos of one hand on the desk, the other waving in a vague, all-encompassing gesture. "Maybe there's somethin' out there that'd take me away from here, from the Ark." Pausing, the saboteur lowered the output of his vocaliser before he went on, matter of fact and completely sincere. "From our family. Maybe if I had a good 'nough reason, I'd do what you all thought I did."

He shook his helm sharply, his vocaliser resetting. "But Prime, I've got Prowl in my spark now. And he's only the loudest voice. You're all there. I ain't gonna give that up anytime soon. Maybe, if I hadta, I'd do it. But it would have t' be one _Pit_ of a good reason."

Jazz let the observation - the promise - hang in the air between them. Slowly, reluctantly, Prime nodded his acceptance. His third grinned, slipping off the desk and brushing his hands over his thigh speakers.

"Right, so shall we get on with this media thing, Prime? If y' don't mind, I've got things t' do an' places t' be."

* * *

Prowl woke suddenly, an errant elbow knocking into his left door-wing and rousing him from a deep recharge. The elbow wasn't alone. Another frame curled into his, a warm engine throbbing against his plating, a weight on his chestplates pinning him to the berth.

At any other time, he'd have reacted with the trained instincts of an Autobot warrior, arming himself and throwing off his burden before the recharge algorithms faded. Instead, the tactician sighed, and thanked Primus for remembering to set override locks on his frame before powering down.

His left door-wing was trapped below the pair of them, the weight not entirely comfortable. Even so, he didn't try to adjust his position, or displace the warm helm resting above his spark. Even if moving had been an option, it was not one he'd have chosen. Instead, he was content to lie still in the soothing field of the recharge berth, a download of files from his office and a quick com to Optimus Prime relieving his morning routine of any urgency.

Perhaps an hour had passed before Prowl became aware of the pale glow of visored optics, playing off the wall beside him. The restless fidgeting, so familiar now that he scarcely noticed it, had subsided. Jazz lay passive, still curled into his companion's side. Slowly, with care, Prowl removed his blocks and eased an arm around his friend's frame.

Jazz sighed, forced to acknowledge his awakening from recharge, and the world outside of his processor.

"I made you late for your shift again." The saboteur's musical tones were made soft by the lingering recharge algorithms. He shifted, moving some of his weight from Prowl's door-wing, and ran his hand over the panel, a magnetic pulse easing it after the strain. Venting a sigh, Jazz squirmed a little closer. "Prowl, I'm sorry."

"I do not recall complaining."

Jazz shook his helm, sensory horns brushing Prowl's chestplate. His soft voice escaped in a half-gasp of distressed laughter.

"One of these orns you're gonna be able to wake me without riskin' your spark doin' it."

Prowl hummed, the vibration from his vocaliser rippling through both frames. "The defensive reaction is not your fault. Berating yourself for it will do little good. Optimus understands and is content for me to work where I may."

The saboteur lying against him wasn't entirely comforted. Jazz tried to pull away. Prowl's arm stopped him, the tension in it carefully gauged to assure his friend he was still welcome, without allowing him to feel trapped. It wasn't uncommon for Jazz to hurry away as soon as recharge faded, his embarrassment haunting Prowl's spark. Just for once, Prowl wasn't in the mood to allow it. Whether Jazz felt that, or whether the saboteur had simply stopped fighting, he subsided, settling into the loose embrace.

"One of these orns, I'm gonna be able to recharge without you there too, Prowler."

This time Prowl's murmur was non-committal. He'd half-thought this was the orn in question. He'd initiated his recharge cycle alone, with the distinct impression that Jazz intended not to return. He'd woken with a companion nonetheless.

It was, at least, better than the two previous occasions - when he'd been forced to go in search of a jumpy Ops mech who'd forced himself to the verge of exhaustion while resisting the compulsion to return to his spark-mate. A compulsion both felt.

"There is no urgency. Neither of us is in immediate demand. Our absence from the full shift will not cause the Ark to collapse around us."

Jazz vented a sigh, his energy field restless and not entirely happy.

"Jazz?"

"I've givin' you bad habits. A few orns back you'd've rather ripped out y'r own vocaliser than say somethin' like that."

It was true, Prowl couldn't deny it. "We are not the mechs we were a few orns ago."

Neither of them was exactly struggling against that truth, nor entirely comfortable with it. There was no denying that Jazz's perspective had affected Prowl as much as he himself was influencing his friend. The behavioural shifts were subtle - perhaps even invisible to any other - but they were real and they had to be acknowledged. Jazz's fine-tuned engine revved, the vibration transmitted between their entwined frames.

"I didn't mean t' crash into y'life like this, y'know."

"Jazz, you crashed into my life an eon and more ago." The dry humour in Prowl's voice did nothing to ease Jazz's tension. The tactician angled his helm, peering down at the forlorn faceplates of his companion. His tone softened. "Neither of us intended this. We can only take Primus's will as it comes."

There was a long breem of silence. Prowl waited patiently. He knew Jazz well enough to see when the saboteur was deep in thought. The physical contact between them, and the insight into one another's sparks that came with it, only confirmed what Prowl had learned from long experience.

Jazz's expelled vent drifted across Prowl's plating, tickling the sensors in his door-wings. The saboteur rolled onto his back, gazing up at the ceiling of Prowl's quarters.

"Primus's will," he repeated. "You sound so resigned. Ratch told me you weren't thrilled when he told you." Jazz's visor dimmed and then cycled back up to full brightness. Prowl felt his doubt, his uncertainty and his determination to learn the truth. "Honestly, Prowler, I need to know. Do you regret this?"

It was a question that deserved the honest answer Jazz had asked for. Prowl considered it, his frame still relaxed, despite the tension that gathered in his spark. This wasn't something they'd discussed before. Both had concentrated on the facts: on the existence of the partial bond between them, and the adjustments needed to accommodate their new status. Their feelings had never come into into it. Now they had, Jazz would not be deceived.

"Honestly? I have two regrets."

"Two?" The saboteur's voice was scarcely above a whisper.

"First, that you had no choice. This semi-bond was not your decision. It was forced upon you."

"Not like y'had a lotta choice yourself, mech!"

Still lying alongside his companion, Prowl raised a hand to still his protest. Jazz fell silent, his trepidation almost thick enough to taste on the air of the closed room.

"And second," Prowl vented a small sigh, "that you must endure the constraint of my presence. Jazz, I will do all I can to minimise my impact on your social life and activities. I never intended to burden your vibrant spark with one so dull in comparison."

His voice was entirely matter-of-fact, his statement an acknowledgement of the world as he saw it rather than any attempt to garner sympathy or deliberate self-deprecation. The wave of astonishment and denial he felt from the mech beside him caught him entirely by surprise.

"No!" Jazz pushed himself up on one arm, looking down at the supine tactician. A bright blue visor scanned him up and down before Jazz relaxed and settled back down, curling a little back towards Prowl's side. "No, Prowler. Not dull! Never that. Mech, I look at you and I see a processor that can think me into a knot, even on my best days. I see a frame tuned t' precision, the smartest pair of door-wings I ever saw," he paused, grinning up at Prowl, "and an aft t' die for. Believe me, I'm lookin' hard, an' I don't see a ball and chain."

Prowl cycled his optics, and his audials for good measure. He still didn't move his frame away from his companion, but he gazed at the ceiling above them in mild disbelief.

"Thank you," he said eventually.

"For tellin' the truth?"

Prowl offered him a half-smile. "For listing my assets in that order, rather than the reverse."

"Y'know me, Prowl. Give me a good processor over a nice frame any day. I'm just lucky, I guess. You've got both."

Prowl shook his helm again, as if trying to clear it. The conversation had taken on an almost surreal aspect, far different from the brusque matter-of-factness with which their days usually began. Jazz shifted, fidgeting a little. The tactician waited, mentally bracing.

"Can't say a choice wouldn't have been good. I don't like havin' my servo forced. Don't like bein' forced at all." The saboteur tensed, shaking his helm as if to shake the thought itself loose , before relaxing back against his companion. "But... we've been friends a Pit of a long time, Prowler. An' I must admit I'm curious, did you ever think…? I mean, did you ever wonder…?" Jazz's voice trailed off, his finger-servos tracing patterns on Prowl's chestplate as if to illustrate his words.

He had to know the answer. Prowl was certain that they both knew it. He didn't look down at his companion but he caught Jazz's servos in his own.

"A liaison between senior officers would have been unwise both tactically and from a disciplinary standpoint. Any such consideration would have to wait until after hostilities were concluded."

"If we both survived." Jazz shook his helm. "I've not given up on a thing in my life, Prowl." Prowl knew it well. Jazz's frown was audible in his voice as he went on. "Nothin' but that."

Prowl sighed, his tone still gentle, emotions softened by the stillness in the room. "I never abandoned hope that our situation might change. I believed it was a possibility worth retaining."

"Yeah," Jazz agreed softly. "Never thought it would actually happen."

"The humans have a phrase: 'never in a million years'." Prowl sighed, finally lowering his optics to meet Jazz's watching visor. "We waited eight. And it is still far from clear what the tactical consequences will be."

"Prowl." Jazz's hand twisted in his, finger-servos intertwining. "What we have, it's pretty much screwed up the double jeopardy thing, and it's gonna take gettin' used to, but it ain't a full bond, y'know."

"I know."

Silence fell, it stretched out as they lay together, servos entwined. Prowl half thought his companion had returned to recharge before the mech spoke, very quietly.

"And it could be, if we wanted it t' be."

Prowl's engine stuttered. His vents stilled before kicking back in. He choked off his words, not at all sure what he wanted to say, or even whether he understood Jazz correctly. "Indeed."

"I guess, what I'm sayin' is..." Jazz's voice trailed off into static. He reset his vocaliser with a slight cough. "We should give it a while, get used to what we have, but if things work out... well..."

"Well?" Prowl's whispered, his shaped breath almost lost even to his spark-mate's sensitive audials. Jazz looked at him, visor bright and tentative voice betraying his nerves.

"Well... I wouldn' be averse t' seein' where this takes us."

The tension eased from Prowl's frame. For the first time in an eternity, he relaxed, the mech he would give his spark for in a nanoklick safe in his arms. Soon, they would have to get up, and rejoin the war which had shaped both their lives, bending but never breaking them. There'd be troubles to face and new lessons to learn, but that lay in the future. Until then, all was as it should be.

"I think I'd like that," he said softly. "I think I'd like that a lot."

* * *

**The End.**


End file.
